Motion Sickness
& Other Stories
AP Modern Literature
Period 5
Spring 2010
Mr. Zervanos
David Mattson
Motion Sickness
One, two, and three golf balls skipped across the sea and from his tee box on the
back of the Neptune, Percy was content. They were biodegradable. Today was Percy’s
eleventh day on the water and the first of his fifth decade. He had never given too much
thought to birthdays as the previous twenty-five of them he had spent furiously
distributing someone else’s money. His particular favorite was the thirty-second.
Margaret Thatcher had just won her reelection and Percy, working from the thirteenth
floor at that time, recalled the first time he saw his wife. She was working at Barclay’s
when he stepped into the elevator with her on June 10th and with his extensive
knowledge of the flora of Wales along with a smattering of witty reflections, he had won
himself another meeting on the 12th. Percy had done this before. Sunday nights were
spent deep into an encyclopedia article, searching for a new topic to fill the gaps during
uncomfortably quiet social settings; riding the elevator being the main use of this exotic
trivia. His career as an investment banker made him wealthy, but statistics didn’t get him
anywhere with the fairer sex.
When he was younger, he learned to hide this under a layer of suave; making
frequent visits to the local gymnasium and natatorium to hone his physical endowments
while practicing French on the ball boys at the tennis courts. He was showing drive early,
the kind that distinguishes a shining graduate prospect from the philosophy major. His
years at university were spent copying graphs out of freshly published textbooks and
eagerly poring over his meticulous lecture notes. I sat to his left and two rows up in the
lecture hall and observed Percy from the time he made an entrance in the morning until
the break for lunch. For eight months, I observed him at this early hour and learned his
peculiarities, his tics, such as the unusual note-taking procedure. He would furiously
transcribe our dear professor's thoughts in detail, breaking as many as four pencil tips in
that three-hour span before sorting them into a folder which he would never look at again.
It wouldn't have surprised me if he had learned the material the night before.
I saw this show three days a week in my second year at the London School of
Economics and I knew a top London firm would scoop him up shortly. As for myself, I
was in school against my father’s wishes. He had expressed a concern for my mingling
with the commoners since the night that I had bedecked myself in his presence with
sweatpants. The years have passed and I don’t quite recall the exchange in detail as many
characters in novels seem to, but my father started by suggesting, “Martin, the Nibelungs
do not don such vestments. Please remove those unsightly leggings."
The response didn't sit well with him. I proceeded to bare my legs and under the
cover of darkness that night, I proceeded to the flagpole in the front lawn. Usually
bearing the symbols of the family's status, the pole served as a vessel to hoist the
gasoline-doused sweatpants to the level of my father’s bedroom before I set them to a
torch. They blazed and the dancing shadows across dad’s eyes must have disturbed his
unconscious enough to throw him out of his slumber. He sat up and observed the blaze
through the glazed window. Having made it through the war, he was unfazed. Those were
my favorite pants. After a particularly unpleasant breakfast tinged with a heavy air of
disgust, I left for the Pemberton Boys’ School for the day. I ended up in London for school with some pleading on the part of both Mother and
myself. Dad always yielded to her and she was my best defense against the ideological
differences of my father and me. Sometimes, I think she wishes I had been a daughter.
Sorry to disappoint. Historically, Pemberton graduates ended up at Cambridge or Oxford,
studying the humanities, before returning home to inherit the estate. I had other ideas. So
it turned out that in the autumn of 1979, I was attending college. Percy mangled his second pencil of the morning at exactly 10:32. Damn. This was
too soon. He still had an hour until lunch. Mechanical pencils had been an option for a
while, but there was the incident in which he had run dry on the black gold, the graphite
fuel for that thirsty transporter of knowledge. He felt abandoned by the fickle technology
and fell back on his trusty wood for securing the information he needed. Ever since he
had arrived at the school, Percy had worked himself to the top of every class he took,
feeling the need to better himself in the eyes of the academics of the sector he wished to
enter: banking, rather than allowing himself time to become friendly with his classmates.
He had arrived at the London School of Economics on a random chance when he decided
that he would apply for school, even if his mother wanted him to work at the market, two
doors down. The decision came back and with a scholarship from the People of Great
Britain, he was prepared to attend school on the public’s money. When that letter arrived,
the one that would pull him up from the base life of ten-hour shifts in a small store in an
equally small village, every day of the week, that his mother attended to, Percy gave a
triumphant whoop and ran into the kitchen where his mother was preparing a small rabbit
for stewing.
"Mum!" Percy bellowed. "I got in."
"Percy, have you applied for work at Steve's shop?" asked his mother
"But, Mum, I'm going to London on scholarship."
"Oh, Percy, that's excellent. Where did you find it?"
"Find what, Mom? The letter?"
"The dog."
"No, Mum," he said quietly. "SCHOOL. IN LONDON. UNIVERSITY."
She had lost much of her hearing while working in a munitions factory during the
war and her habit of misinterpreting conversations left her with few friends in Stratford.
"Oh." she mumbled. "Oh. Okay. Represent us well, Percy. When do you leave?"
"September, but I'll be home holidays. You'll be alright, Mum."
He could tell that his departure would dishearten his mother, but the offer was too
good for him to pass up and he was determined to arrive in London in the autumn.
So, he found himself at the university with a charge from his mother to forge a
precedent for the Buchanans that would be a daunting standard for his posterity. He
attacked the classroom with a hungry desire for the art of economics, the subject that
would be his means of entering the upper class and shedding his old life from his
personality. His vigorous note-taking and stellar record attracted notice from his
professors and tutor who began take personal interests in the future of the boy greater
than that of the other students at the university and Percy Buchanan was emerging as a
high-powered prospect for every bank in London.
These were the conditions in which I met Percy, and the opening stages of our
friendship were interesting. As the lecture went on that morning, and due to Percy's now
total lack of writing instrument, he dug ever more frantically in his bag for anything he
could carry on recording the ideas with. Today's particular subject was the life of Adam
Smith and not particularly critical to the development of the course. I tossed my pencil
over his shoulder and the perfect arc had it landing on his notebook and his bewildered
facial expression was the first change in emotion that I had seen in Percy since he arrived
in Economic Curiosities in January. He slowly picked up the utensil as though it were
worth its weight in gold before proceeding on with his routine.
After class, he ran out of the lecture hall to get to lunch before his peers and I was
left dumbfounded at the apparent thievery of such a critical tool in the student’s arsenal.
Percy was known for his ruthlessness when it came to academic ranking. I strolled to the
lunchroom and affronted Percy for the requisition of my pencil.
“Percy! Would you mind parting with that bit of wood there?”
“Ah. Yes. Thank you sir for the opportunity. It was kind of you to lend it.”
“Right. Yes. I was missing your usual animated scrawling.”
He reached into his bag and removed the implement, looking it over once more
before its cool exterior could grace my palm again. I walked into the lecture hall the
following morning, hung over and expecting to recover with a refreshing morning nap as
Professor Higdon rambled on about the basis of economic thought. So I was surprised to
find a note at my usual place in the lecture hall, signed by Percy.
I thank you deeply, sir, for the display of kindness the other day. Perhaps I could
persuade you to enjoy a drink this afternoon at the Union. I’ll await your reply after this
morning’s lecture.
Cheers,
Percy
I may have been the first student to make any real inroads into Percy’s persona at
the LSE when I accepted that invitation to the bar. I discovered that evening, Percy’s
ambition to become an investment banker from his lowly beginnings: the reason for his
furious work and long nights in a bath of fluorescent lighting. I decided that night to
transport him into the world he wanted to break into, and the world I was trying to avoid.
I brought him to luncheons with men of influence on the London Board of Commerce, to
the country clubs my father frequented so he could take part in the intrigue, and along
with my father and I on our weekend trips to the Continent. I liked Percy. His innocent
drive to succeed beyond his social boundaries and his warming tales of holidays with his
large extended family, or of how he had taken over the house ever since his father had
given up on trying to raise children and had left for Blackpool where there was promise
of a friend’s apartment and prospective employment. Percy was the perfect son in my
father’s eyes and he was adored from the moment he brought his curly hair into my foyer
during the Christmas recess. In addition to his apparent filial piety, a duty that I had
neglected from the moment I was old enough to hold a grudge against a domineering
father, Percy was highly motivated in his work and eager to please those who would help
him out of his poverty.
Percy had developed into a talented and surprisingly easy socialite when he finally
arrived at the finish line, for which I take much of the credit. He had made it through his
education and was on track to begin at UBS that summer. Although he had seen relatively
little of his mother lately amongst the distractions of interviews with CEO’s and trips to
the Nibelung’s various European homes, he had little time for much else that last
semester of his schooling. Despite a slight dip in his academic performance, Percy was
fully committed to finishing with top marks. Soon he would be in a comfortable office
chair somewhere in London, computing mathematical models or making graphical
analyses, the passion of his young mind. Things were turning out just as he had wished
and he would soon be living in a condominium of a hip new neighborhood or in the
suburbs with extensive grounds for his highly anticipated hounds (My own had grown
fond of his doting). Percy knew he deserved this, but couldn’t quite help wondering what
would have transpired if he had used pens instead of pencils for his notes. The only piece
missing for Percy was the one for his heart, and it was at this moment when he actively
began to seek a companion.
He had no idea what he was looking for or really, what he was doing, so he took
what he was best at, information recall, and applied it to this. His early attempts to charm
with his magnificent tales of Peter the Great touring Europe or of the particular habit of
sloths to come to the ground to relieve themselves seemed to grant more glares than
smiles, so he learned to lead with more neutral subjects: the weather, the sports scores, or
what was for lunch. It was at this stage in Percy’s social skill with the fairer sex that
Stephanie stepped onto the elevator at the 10th floor on June 10th. She was immediately
taken by the newfound knowledge of the Pinckney mushroom, abundant on the seaside
bluffs in Northern Wales.
Percy’s courting period with Stephanie was relatively short as he was eager to
secure the last part of his life’s puzzle, or he was just unsure of the recommended waiting
time between first contact and engagement. Whatever the case, they were married in
October and it was at the reception, as I sat next to Percy in my best man’s outfit that I
proposed a business venture to Percy. I suggested we head to the Caribbean and spend
our days fishing, sleeping, and keeping an eye on the market from the warming glow of
the equatorial sun, not the dull gray skies of London. Under the giddy high of new love,
Percy was in no shape to pack up and venture off with me to the unknown, not now that
he had secured what he had always dreamed of.
I kept the matter in the back of my head as I watched the newlyweds grow into each
other’s company; I began to see straight into the heart of Percy’s error. Stephanie was a
tall, exquisite blonde and I’m sure the sex was staggering, but Percy, without intimate
experience with any other woman, had looked past her materialistic tendencies. This
inexperience was not something Percy could solve, that would be labeled cheating, but as
the years went by, I needed to extract him from the situation.
The funds he managed were beating averages by double digits and Percy soon had
offers from every banking house in Europe that promised higher salaries, longer holidays,
and better locations, but Percy was determined to please my father, who had secured the
UBS placement for him and was content to move up within the company. Stephanie
wasn’t pleased with his frequent rejection of these offers as it would mean larger parties,
a larger home (she was constantly nagging her husband that 6,000 square feet was much
too cozy for her monthly parties, especially the New Years Ball), and a location other
than rainy England and her happiness was wearing. I could tell by his voice when he
answered her calls that he was edgier in conversation and began to work longer and stay
out well past decent hours. As things began to break down in Percy’s home life, I decided
it was time to bring the offer back up. The introduction of the Internet made the plan even
more practical and his own turmoil made it easy for him to accept. He resigned from
UBS the following month and we set off for the Caribbean with his expertise and my
enthusiasm for something new. We bought the Neptune in Nantucket while staying with
my uncle who had prepared a crash course in sailing and ship maintenance. It was when
Percy ripped his palm while reigning in the mainsail that I was chosen as the master of
the ship. This suited Percy as he took could focus on running our investment firm rather
than spend time worrying about which way the jib needed to swing when attempting a
right turn.

I watched him from the captain’s chair; each ball had a little draw on it, the ideal
movement for the practiced golfer. Stephanie was coming in from Havana at noon,
probably the last time we would see her. Percy had been anxious all week about her plans
to sign the divorce papers, not that he cared for the bitch anymore after what she had
done to him, but because of what it would mean for his pride. The first failure he had ever
experienced. I was no help, tossing him a beer and wondering aloud whether the flights
were on time. Soon enough, the plane appeared on the horizon, coming in low and fast as
if it were anxious to get back to port. Percy watched through his binoculars and tracked
the vector of the aircraft, careful to move the glasses smoothly across the horizon for he
had a terrible case of motion sickness. Then it came. Everything at once. The pain from
reading the letter from Stephanie of the other man back in London, of his departure from
all he had learned, and now the severing of his puzzle. He gazed back up into the sky and
looked quickly for the plane. Where was it when he had closed his eyes? Quick, snappy
movements, frantic searching. Had it landed already? His nausea kicked in and vertigo
took over as Percy dropped the binoculars to his chest. He took a few steps back,
stumbled, and fell slowly into the ocean. I marveled at the precise impact of his temple on
the edge of the deck and the sound of snapping vertebrae signaled the surest death I have
ever experienced.
Jayna Anderson
Distance
Lauren, my old college roommate, lived alone in a house that easily could have fit
a family of five. Her bedroom was spacious, bigger than the tiny jail-cell of a room I had
been sharing with my husband, Tom. Her bed, flanked with Egyptian cotton, had caused
me to fantasize about making love to some wealthy business man. I had smoothed her
pillow with envy as I took note of the fresh flowers on the night stand. I remember
looking at my reflection in her mirror, the perfect room floating dreamily behind me.
I had never seen a nicer home- I was used to my one bedroom basement
apartment. We weren’t allowed to paint the walls; only the front burners worked on our
stove; the cable vanished with the sight of rain. I had tried to brighten the three small
rooms with fancy lighting and modern, floor length curtains, but the attempt seemed
feeble against my water damaged walls. One night, after Tom caught me crying in the
bathroom over the stove’s habitual malfunction, he drove me to the nearest Pier 1.
Together we shopped for lavish things to fill our future home- I wandered through the
story in a daze, my dream home forming before my eyes. I left the store carrying a few
new candles for the living room.
Tom and I had been together for years. He had become a part of me, the way a
child becomes a part of their mother. He was the only person I had in my life. Sometimes,
I found myself fixing his hair and thinking that he would be lost without me. He needed
me to keep him sane when he was in pain. I took care of him and everything else- the
finances, the cleaning, the cooking, the doctor appointments. I paid the rent on time
every month. I went to Whole Foods every Sunday morning and shopped for all of Tom’s
dietary needs. I kept our dream alive.
We had been living in our dingy apartment for two years. The plan was to save up
and buy another house so that we could start a family together. But it seemed as if our
joint-bank account was a black hole- we never had enough money to do the things I
wanted to. We never had enough money to fix the stove, let alone put a down payment on
another home. Tom’s medical bills stole half of our paychecks every month.
Tom had multiple sclerosis, a disease that sometimes left him crippled inside for
days on end. I knew this when I met him, and I had lived with it before I married him.
But back then, his symptoms were few and far between… his doctor’s visits were bimonthly, if that. Tom was five years my senior, but he had still always been too young to
have M.S. It never dawned on me that his disease would age him so quickly. I never
thought that all of our money would be spent trying to make him healthy enough to have
children. I never understood that he would never be healthy enough to have my children.
His sickness wasn’t in our plan. Tom got sicker and sicker and our debt dug
deeper and deeper. I worked overtime just to pull in enough cash to cover our asses. Tom
worked from home when he was in too much pain to leave- but even then, it was never
enough. Two years ago, we sold our two bedroom “starter” home on the east side of
town, and moved into our basement apartment. Our plan was to save enough money to
buy a house and start a family. That had been our plan four years ago when we
exchanged vows and swore our commitment to each other. Each day led us in the wrong
direction; each day Tom was plighted with slightly more pain.
So, when Lauren had invited me to stop over to check out her new place, I jumped
on the opportunity. It would be refreshing to retreat from grayness and help celebrate
with a friend. I pictured us sitting at her new dining room table, laughing and telling
stories of our college years. What I found when I rang the doorbell, was a woman I
hardly recognized. A woman done up to perfection, standing in front of an entry way that
I’ve only seen in magazines. She took me for a tour of the house as I tried to pretend
there was glue in between my teeth. I would have died before I allowed my jaw to drop in
front of her. My focus shifted between my disappointment in myself and my awe of her
life.
Our last stop on the tour was her bedroom. I remember staring into her floor
length mirror- my image reflected ironically against her picturesque room. I remember
the distinct burn of jealousy in my stomach as I was surrounded by freshly painted walls,
new carpet and high class furnishings. Until that moment, I always held a secret pity for
Lauren. She never fell in love, she never met the one. Her life rang with a shallowness
that had always triggered an immense pity in me.
But as I stared at my wrinkled blouse and lint covered pencil skirt, I realized my
feeling of pity was towards myself. My hair hung loose around my dull green eyes- eyes
that were surrounded by creases that hadn’t been there yesterday. A soft grayness
emanated from my skin, leaving my appearance lackluster. My eyes bore through the
glass, into the curves of my body, or rather, the folds. My breasts seemed lumpy beneath
my unwashed bra; my line of cleavage had sunk downward, directing the eye towards the
small patch of fatty tissue above my waist. The zipper of my skirt softy dug into my
belly. Even my sagging upper arms were noticeable through my shirt.
For years, I had found pride in my appearance. No effort brought me more
compliments than necessary- but as I saw my reflection, I thought on how I had been
waking up earlier and earlier to put myself together each morning. And every morning I
was slipping farther and farther away from the woman I had been. My daily life had
become a job. My passions had slipped right through my fingertips when I wasn’t
looking.
I stood in my college roommate’s new house and ignored her chatter of all the
renovations. Her arms were sweeping out in front of her as she squeaked away with
pleasure. I heard her mention plumbing before everything went black. I never saw it
coming.
The last time I saw Tom, I was rushing around our apartment, trying to get ready
so that I would be at Lauren’s on time. He was sitting on our little love seat couch,
watching me with a smirk on his face. It had bothered me deeply that he found humor in
my fluster. I had spent that entire morning worrying about him and that smirk had driven
me crazy. I said something along the lines of “Wipe that smirk off your face, Tom, I
really don’t have the patience for your childish behavior,” something like that. He had
only laughed at me then, which caused me to flare up. He had responded by telling me he
loved me and holding out a hand to me. I swatted it away and had bent over to grab my
jacket from the floor. When I stood up, his hand was still outstretched, and this time, his
face was serious. He had looked hard at me, and I remember my strong discomfort
beneath his eyes. He told me he loved me again, and I took his hand. He pulled me onto
his lap and had rubbed his hands across my body. He told me I was perfect and kissed my
shoulder. I sat there silently for a few moments before I got up and told him I’d be back
later that night.
I hadn’t meant to ruin our plan.
I don’t remember killing Lauren.
I can’t remember why I did it.
It wasn’t jealousy like the detectives tried to claim. I remember my jealousy from
that night, but it wasn’t jealousy that caused me to black out. It wasn’t jealousy that
caused me to strangle her. I saw her reflection pitted against mine, and I broke. It was not
her I was infuriated with, but myself.
That night, when I came to myself again, I was standing naked in her shower. I
was choking on the water and my eyes were burning. The water scorched my skin and
my hands were sprung out in front of me. I had screamed. The police were called; it was
a quiet neighborhood. They had found me on the bathroom floor crying. I never went
back into her bedroom. I couldn’t get past the fog in my brain. The police dressed me in
Lauren’s bathrobe. They carried me to the police car as my body convulsed violently and
my throat screamed for help. I was given sedatives to get through questioning.
It still makes me twitch to look down at my hands, to know that I had killed
someone. But the sickest part is, when I look down at my hands, I can’t help thinking
about Tom. I wonder if he’s okay. I wonder what he thinks of before he lays his head to
rest each night—I wonder if he still remembers things about me and smiles.
He divorced me after the trial, after I was sentenced to life in prison. He didn’t
come to the court hearing, I had asked him politely not to. We had three phone calls since
the incident- all others went through his mother’s family lawyer. He had tried to contact
me, to know what had happened, to get some closure, but I was unable to provide it for
him. I had asked that he only contact me through the lawyer from then on. He had said
okay and had hung up. He wrote me a letter about a year ago. It said “I need to
understand, please help me understand.” I threw the letter away. I filed a complaint with
the warden; if he ever writes me a letter again, I will never receive it.
He has tried to visit me once. He tried to set up a visit before the divorce, but I
refuse. I need my distance. I remind myself every morning of what I did to Tom, and
then, I cry.
Shannon Boyle
Probational Period
Her first subject, an almost middle-aged man heading south. Reading an official-looking
notice and doesn't look too happy. Probably lost his job. Carrying bag of toys, plans on
trying to reassure his children of their financial status when he gets home. Single father,
wife must have died. Tan lines where his wedding ring was but it is on his right hand
now. Next, the younger man hurrying north. White shirt, stained sleeves. A cook, but a
sloppy one. Cut on his arm, bandaged. Someone must have dropped a knife on it, can't
cut it like that chopping up chicken. Carrying a basket. Must be out to get fresh
vegetables from the market on 10th, and not too happy about it because of that scowl. His
underlings must have been late this morning. Sylvia paused in her thoughts to take a sip
from the paper cup of coffee in her hand.
People-watching served as a release for her. She normally chose this cafe after a night
with Will because of the large window with a spectacular view of the street and all the
people who walk up and down it. Will had taught her how to do it, how to use her
observations to deduce who a man was, where he was going, and what he was doing.
Sylvia sighed at the thought of her partner. He was probably right where she left him,
tangled in his sheets, asleep. She couldn't stand to be in that bed with him. What they had
done the night before lacked everything that made her love him. The gentle touches, the
soft laughter, the whispers of "I love you." None of it was there. She had to get out of that
apartment before she screamed.
She took another sip of her cinnamon-spiced coffee, then began to find another subject
for her observational skills. Her cell phone began ringing on the table. It was, predictably,
Will. Her peace was shattered. At least she had remembered to put the phone on vibrate.
If she had to hear "I Can't Decide", the song by the Scissor Sisters that Will had chosen as
his personal ringtone, blasting out of it, she may have taken the song seriously. He could
never say no to some cake, even if it was poisoned. She opened her phone and held it to
her ear.
"Yes, Will?" Sylvia tried not to sound agitated.
She could hear the drowsiness in his voice. That's just like him. To immediately call her
after waking up, not even bothering to look for her. He knew her too damn well. "Hey,
where are you?"
She stirred her coffee absentmindedly. Should she tell him? Sure, why not. "The cafe two
blocks from your place. I wanted a good cup of coffee." She heard rustling. "Are you
getting up?"
"Yeah. You want me to come down and meet you?"
No, anything but that. "No, it's fine. I'll finish and head back soon." Why did her
apartment have to be on the other side of town?
"All right, I'll be in the shower. See you soon."
She heard the click of the call disconnecting and closed her phone. "See you soon." When
had lovers ever ended a call in that manner after a night together? She downed her coffee.
It would be a long day.
_____________________________________________________________________
The sound of ringing phones and clicking keyboards surrounded her. There was a flurry
of activity on the fifth floor of the CIA building, as always. Sylvia was chatting up the
secretary, Virginia, who seemed to be less busy than everyone else. Sylvia tried to steer
the conversation away from Will, who was on the phone and searching something on the
database at the same time at his station. She spoke, instead, of the upcoming World
Series, the gorgeous weather, Virginia's vacation on Long Island, and the recent delays
on the subway. But, Sylvia knew that sooner or later the topic would come to Will. And it
did happen sooner.
"So," Virginia started, a coy smile on her face. "How are things with Agent Donnelly?"
She had leaned forward in her seat to whisper, like the was a conspiracy against the very
country they sought to protect.
Sylvia glanced over at her partner. He was standing now, talking fiercely to whoever was
on the other line. His sharp blue eyes were locked on his computer screen. He had given
up on trying to look professional; the shirt-sleeves of his dark blue shirt rolled up, his tie
loosened, his dirty blond hair tousled from having a hand run through it a few times. Yes,
she was mad at him. But she couldn't ignore the image of his muscles moving under his
shirt, the way his bangs fell into his eyes, or the smirk that crossed his face when he
found what he was looking for. Damn. Damn him for being so attractive.
As she turned to answer Virginia's question, she noticed many of the younger women
admiring him as well. Those women in particular are still in their probational period; also
known as newbies or "probies." They were not allowed in the field, nor were they
allowed to hold partners until they had finished their training. They tended to be the girls
who would giggle over a good looking senior agent or gossip about which agent should
partner with whom. But, the one thing they all had in common was that eventually their
attentions would turn to her partner. It had always been so. Even for her.
___________________________________
The memory of the day she first spoke to Agent Will Donnelly was burned into her mind.
She was six months away from ending her probational period and becoming a full agent.
At the moment, she was a senior agent's gopher. "Take this to Agent Donnelly. You
know who he is, right?" She had nodded. "Of course, all you probies do." She took the
box and scurried away, avoiding the eyes of all of the intimidating agents around her. She
was on a mission.
It was every female probie's dream to be ordered to go speak to Will Donnelly. He was
one of the more attractive agents. He had finished his training early, and excelled at every
aspect of being an agent. She froze as she entered the aisle his station was in. What would
he think of her? She had heard that he was not very impressed by her fellow probies. She
looked down at his name on the box, and another thought struck her. Why should she
care? She took a deep breath and walked down the aisle. She thanked whatever god
existed. He was on the phone.
She listened to the smooth baritone of his voice, then tapped lightly on the wall of his
station. She blushed when he turned to see who was there, still listening to the man who
seemed to be yelling on the other line. He smiled, and her heart stopped. He had one of
those smiles that made someone feel like she was the only person in his world. It sent
shivers down her spine. He held a finger up, asking her to wait a moment, then continued
talking with the man on the phone.
Sylvia glanced around his station. He had no pictures, no personal effects, nothing except
his I.D., badge, and gun, which all sat in a small pile next to a file holder. A sticky note
stuck to his computer monitor had a date scribbled down, with the words "Deadline for
partner selection" scrawled beneath. Soon, her eyes came to rest on the man himself. She
had the urge to run her fingers through and fix his windswept hair. The movement of his
muscles under his shirt when he rolled his shoulders could and would make any girl
swoon. And as a self-satisfied smirk crossed his face, she swore she would faint. He was
attractive, and at that moment, Sylvia would have given anything to have him.
He said goodbye to the man on the phone, and, faster than she could have said "I want
you", he replaced the receiver. He seemed more than happy to have a reason to get off the
phone. Sylvia struggled to regain her composure as he sighed and rubbed his face
wearily. He took a deep breath and swiveled in his chair to face her, that smile on his face
again. "Hello. How can I help you?"
Sylvia gaped at him. Why was she here, again? Oh, right, the package! "A-agent
Armstrong asked me to-to bring this to you, sir."
He leaned forward in his seat and held a hand out. Sylvia did not miss the lack of any
rings of any kind. "Ah, yes! I've been waiting for this. Thanks."
She nodded and gulped quietly, then, as he turned back to his desk to open it, turned and
left the station. She was home free. Until his voice rang in her ears again. "Wait, probie."
Sylvia scrunched her face. Oh, dear. She could feel the eyes of the other female probies
on her. Was that daggers she felt shooting from their eyes? She took a deep breath and
slowly faced him again. "Yes, sir?"
The intrigued look he was giving her was too cute on that face of his. It was almost too
much to bear. Did he know that almost every female on this floor was watching them?
Probably. He was probably enjoying this. What could he possibly want from her? She
wasn't that gorgeous. Marie St. James was the prettiest of the probies. She had practically
thrown herself at him last month. Sylvia almost slapped herself. She had to stop jumping
to conclusions. He cocked his head. "What's your name, probie?"
Sylvia's eyebrows could have been in space for all she knew, she had raised them so high.
"Sylvia, sir. Sylvia Powell."
He smiled and nodded, satisfied. "Sylvia... thanks." He returned to his work. Sylvia had
never run to the breakroom as fast as she had after that encounter. She continued to
deliver packages and other items to his station for the next six months. They learned a bit
more about each other. He was born in July, loved Green Day, read a book or two a
month, and couldn't live without a DVD player. She told him that her birthday was in
September, about her love for Regina Spektor, how she lacked the patience to read much,
and her tendency to watch French cinema. If it wasn't frowned upon for an agent to spend
time with a probie off the clock, she could imagine them being great friends. She almost
had a heart attack when, after her probational period ended, she was assigned to be
partners with Will Donnelly. It would be a year until he told her he planned on requesting
her from the moment she waited patiently in his station without jumping him. It would be
another year and a close shave with death before they began sleeping together. She had
almost lost him, and that realization was the catalyst to their confessions of love. She
should have known it wouldn't last. It never does.
________________________________________________________________________
It had been a week since Sylvia had left the warmth of Will's bed to think about
everything in the cafe. It was dark in Paris. They had been sent into the field to take out
an illegal weapons trader who was attending a special ball at Versailles. After unpacking
and having a meal they ordered from room service, Sylvia found herself being taken to
bed. She had lacked the strength (and the will) to say no to her lover. Now, hours later,
she found herself sitting at the small desk in the hotel room, Will's button-up thrown on
over her camisole to give her a small sense of warmth and decency. Her brown hair fell
into her eyes and about her shoulders, and she absentmindedly brushed it with her fingers
as she watched Will sleep. He lay on his stomach, the blanket pulled up to his waist, his
head resting on one arm, his other hand on her pillow. His skin looked almost like stone
in the pale moonlight coming in from the double doors to their balcony. Her mind was
filled with thoughts of him. Will, her mentor. Will, her partner. Will, her lover. He was so
much to her. He meant so much to her. She refused to show it, but their slow descent into
the inevitable end of it was breaking her inside. He was ever so slowly becoming distant.
Their nightly acts had once been all about her. He had focused everything on her, always
pleasing her, always making her happy, always telling her he loved her. Now... what? He
rarely said the words that had once made her heart pound louder. He rarely looked her in
the eye when they spoke. He seemed to be in the motions of a caring, passionate lover,
but he also seemed to lack the heart.
Almost as if he could hear her piercing thoughts, Will groaned in his sleep. Sylvia slowly
stood from her perch and climbed back into the bed. She tried to sooth his sleeping mind
by running her fingers through that think hair that she once dreamed of ruffling. He
grimaced slightly, then opened his eyes. They slowly swiveled up to her, and his
eyebrows drew together in sleepy confusion. "Sylvia?" he whispered.
Sylvia smiled and "shh'd" him, slowly sliding down to his level. As soon as he could,
Will moved closer to her and rested his head on her arm. She stroked his hair until he fell
asleep again. A tear fell onto her pillow. Holding him like this made it harder for her to
think about the decision she had finally come to. She had to do it before her heart
shattered. As soon as they completed the mission, she was going to apply for a new
partner. She continued to cry silently as she buried her nose in his hair. She knew she had
to sleep, but she didn't know if she could.
_______________________________________________________________________
The ball was in full swing when she and Will arrived. Rich people in rich clothing sipped
champagne ad nibbled on hors d'œuvres. Here, in their world, it was unseemly to just eat.
An individual had to slowly take in anything he ate or drank. The doormen bowed as the
pair floated gracefully pass them into the world of the rich and extravagant.
Sylvia, foolishly, felt like a fairy tale princess in her golden gown and shoes. The tiara in
her beautifully done up-do did not help deter her from the image. She was arm-in-arm
with Will, who was rather dashing in his tuxedo, blond hair slicked back and blue eyes
behind fashionable glasses. They made quite the couple. They stopped at a refreshment
table, Will handing her a glass of champagne while surveying the area.
Sylvia sipped the bubbly beverage gingerly. She hated the stuff. Red wine was her
poison. A beautiful couple glided by, sharing a laugh over who knows what. She frowned
into her glass. One of the things that drew her to the CIA life was the destinations of
many of the mission objectives. After she was partnered with Will, she had visions of the
two of them waltzing in some gorgeous ballroom anywhere in the world. A romantic
evening of dancing, dining, and more dancing... just not the kind someone did standing
up. Now that she finally had what she had once envisioned, she wanted out. This place,
and her doubts... they were confining.
She was snapped out of her thoughts as Will took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
She glanced up at him and saw him glaring across the ball room. She followed his line of
vision. There he was. Over by the doors to the balcony, smirking and flirting with many
young women, was their target, his red hair helping him to stand out in the crowd. He
was Simon Demetrius, their target. A fierce and violent weapons trader to the world's
baddest and famous womanizer. Sylvia squeezed Will's hand in return.
He had felt the tension in the limo ride to Versailles. He knew she was planning
something. Sylvia felt a pang in her heart. He had no idea what she had in store for him.
But it didn't matter now. For the moment, for the night, she couldn't be his lover. She
could only be his partner.
________________________________________________________________________
Sylvia couldn't express how nervous she was. Not in words. But she was shaking as she
walked, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Will was following her from a small
distance, sticking to the shadows. They couldn't be seen with each other in this hall way,
not while she intended to seduce Demetrius.
The plan was for her to gain entrance to his suite, and for Will to be outside the door,
ready for any unexpected developments. Like Demetrius trying to kill her. She had
changed into a more scandalous dress: black, with a long slit up the skirt. Her hair was
down but tousled to perfection. She could practically hear Will drooling as they left their
rooms earlier. It was almost like the beginnings of their romantic relationship. She was
trying not to think about it. In a few moments, she would be throwing herself on Will's
"archenemy". The man had caused the death of Will's last partner. He hadn't forgotten it.
He wouldn't have followed her if the two men had never had a personal encounter before.
She felt safer with him there. She felt braver. But she couldn't stop shaking.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, she finally stopped in front of the door to his suite.
She took a deep breath, turning to Will. He smiled at her, giving her a nod. He was ready
if she was. She was. She cleared her throat and knocked on the door three times. She
quickly adjusted her stance to that of a slightly drunk woman ready to party, and
plastered a flirty smile on her face. The door opened slowly to reveal a beefy, dark
bodyguard in a sharp suit. He eyed Sylvia, stuck between amused and cautious. "Can I
help you, ma'am?"
Sylvia layed it on thick. "Hey darlin'. I heard the guy in here was looking for a woman to
spend the night with? Am I right?" She made the perfect drunk Texan.
He raised an eyebrow. The butterflies started up in her stomach again. She could feel
Will's eyes on her, he was ready to take the bodyguard down if he even touched her. The
tension was thick in the air. She was saved by a villain with a barely detectable Russian
accent. Ironically. "Let her in, Jackson. She sounds exactly like what I was looking for."
She flashed a Will Donnelly smirk at the guard, and breezed passed him into the suite.
The door was closed behind her. She was now on her own. Well damn. Standing by the
large window, Simon Demetrius watched her over a glass of what looked like scotch. He
had a smirk plastered on his face as well. It was decidedly more attractive on Will.
Maybe she was just biased. Who knows? Demetrius beckoned her closer. Time to play it
up. She sauntered over, and stumbled just before reaching him. He caught her "in the nick
of time." She giggled away. "Thanks, darlin'. That was a close one."
She batted her eyes up at him. She had to hurry. Will had to be climbing onto the balcony
by now. She needed to be rid of the witnesses. She prayed that she could cast some sort
of spell on him. He gazed at her dreamily. Was it working? His gaze shifted between her
and the body guards. He froze on the guards. Success! "Jackson. Morris. Give me some
time with..." he glanced back at her, "lovely lady." There was a duet of "sir"s, and the
men left the room. Sylvia breathed a sigh of relief as Demetrius set her on her feet. He
smiled at her, and moved towards the bedroom. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"I'd love some of what you're havin'." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Will vault
over the balcony's railing. He smiled and winked at her, then backed into the shadows as
Demetrius returned to the room, a bottle of scotch and another glass in his hand. She
accepted the glass when he offered it, and smiled as he poured the amber liquid into it. As
they moved passed the balcony doors on thier way to the sofas, Sylvia discretely
unlocked the doors. They sat, and Demetrius slid closer to her, a leering smile on his
semi-handsome face.
"So, Texas, what's your name?" His hand slowly slid up her thight. Behind her smile, she
was hiding the thought that had he groped her other thigh, he'd have touched her gun, and
Will would have been her only defense. If he could get there in time. She brushed hair
out of her eyes with her free hand, then rested it on his shoulder.
"Candice. What's yours?"
He smiled. "Christopher." So he was using an alias as well. Clever.
"Christopher... I love that name. My brother's name is Chris." She sipped her drink. All
she needed was for him to move to the bedroom. Time to turn up the heat. She downed
the rest of the scotch and gave him an extremely flirty smile. "You know... I didn't come
here for a drink." She placed her hand on his thigh. She could feel Will seething on the
other side of the doors. "Y'know?"
Demetrius' dirty smirk grew. "I do." He stood. "Let me go set the bed up." He stalked into
the bedroom. Sylvia stood and pulled her gun out of the holster on her thigh. She
attatched her silencer and pointed it at the door. She waited. Any second now... "All right,
Miss Candice. Let's-" He looked up and saw the gun. "Oh dear..."
"Oh dear is right, Demetrius. Hands up, now." The accent was gone.
"My, my." He acquiesced. "And who sent you, my dear?"
"The CIA." He wouldn't live to tell, anyway.
"Well then... I'll know where to send my apologies." He quickly pulled out a gun and
pointed it at her. Almost as soon as that had happened, Will exploded into the room, his
gun also out, and aimed right between Demetrius' eyes. "Well, well. If it isn't Will
Donnelly. How you doing, Agent?"
Will bristled. "Shut up, Demetrius. Get that gun off my partner. Now." Sylvia was taken
aback. She had never heard Will growl like that at anyone. It was wild and full of hatred.
Sje was off guard for a second. That was all it took for hell to break loose.
Demetrius smirked at him. "Rather not. Say goodbye to your lovely partner, Donnelly."
He aimed. Will shouted. Everything went so fast after that. Sylvia saw Will move, and
she braced herself for the impact of a bullet. The muted sound of the gun resounded in
her mind. She felt nothing. Will had made it in time. He took the bullet, and she didn't
even think. She snapped back to attention and shot Demetrius. Twice. She continued to
aim her gun at him, even as he took his last breath. She didn't move until she heard the
sound of her lover calling her name.
"Sylvia... you alright?"
"Oh God, Will." She dropped to her knees next to him. He had been hit in the stomach,
and there was a rapidly darkening spot on his black shirt. She pressed one hand to the
wound and used the other to use her cell phone to call their base in Paris. "Will, what
were you thinking?"
He smiled up at her, his beautiful eyes clouded with pain. "Hey... sweetheart... I'm sorry I
haven't been... the man you need.... lately." Sylvia's throat burned as she held back tears.
He hadn't called her "sweetheart" in weeks. How she missed the way he said it, even as
he gasped in pain.
"Will, honey, it's fine. I forgive you. You have to hang in there, okay? For me?" She
paused in her pleading to explain the situation to her superior at the base. They were
sending help. She had to keep her partner alive. They would be there soon.
"Sylvia... please... don't leave me." Sylvia froze. Will grabbed her free hand. "Please."
She let out a small laugh. Tears were welling up in her eyes. "I was going to ask you the
same thing." She lifted his hand and kissed it gently. "Stay with me, Will."
He smiled again. "I love you, Syl. I do... I do... I swear I do... I'm so sorry, love..."
She couldn't hold back anymore. Sylvia began sobbing.
________________________________________________________________________
Sylvia was sitting in the cafe again. She was too distracted to people watch today.
Instead, she stirred her coffee. It had already grown cold. She didn't care. She was
exhausted. She was overworked. She was seriously thinking about using some vacation
days. She was thinking Paris... she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to think about
Paris. It had been such a nightmare. She rubbed her face.
She almost jumped when she felt a warm body press against her back. She opened her
eyes to see his hands resting on both sides of hers on the table. She smiled when he
leaned down and pressed his lips to her temple. "Thanks for leaving me alone again,
kiddo."
"I knew you'd be okay, lover boy." He chuckled and moved to sit across from her. Will's
eyes sparkled as he smiled at her and began rolling up his sleeves.
"Yeah, yeah. So. You almost ready?"
"Mmhm. I'll just go-"
He waved her off. "Nah, I'll go pay. I'll meet you outside." He took her receipt and
headed to the counter. Sylvia smiled as she collected her purse and headed outside. She
paused when she saw her beautiful engagement ring catch the light. Why she ever
doubted him, she didn't know. As he said to her the night he prosposed, maybe love just
needed a probational period as well. Thank God she had given him his second chance.
Ryan Bushey
Perfect World
He only gave her one reason, three words, concise in structure, yet infinite in
meaning. “I need to.” That’s all he would say, over and over, whenever she asked.
Whenever she sat up late at night, crying because she had a nightmare, and begged him
not to go. “Why?” She would beg, “Why do you have to?” He just stared straight at the
wall and repeated those three words. “I need to. I just need to.” Whenever she would
break down in the middle of washing the dishes in their cramped kitchen. The ceiling was
so low that the piled pots and pans seemed as if they might just touch it, reaching up to it
like infants reaching for their mother. “You can’t just say that” She would say. “I need to
know why. Why you have to, why you’re leaving me here…” Again, the same three
words. And that was it.
*
He had gone to the tiny building one hot day in August. It was situated between a
bakery and a funeral home on the main street. The windows looked dark, but the sign on
the door read “open”. The ceiling fan was whirring around like a propeller, and a small
radio pathetically crackled out classic rock. He walked up to the man in uniform at the
desk and told him that he wanted to join; he wanted to be a United States Marine. After
some paperwork he was given an interview date. After the interview he started hanging
around with the other recruits. He told her that he was working extra shifts at Wal-mart.
*
It was a Saturday that he told her. He saved up some extra money to take her on a
date to the Olive Garden and the movies. She dressed up in a short blue dress and a grey
knitted sweater. Her fake diamond earrings beautifully reflected the light, and she
couldn’t contain her smile. It had been weeks since they had gone out together. She
playfully rubbed his leg with her foot at dinner, and held his hand during the walk from
the car to the movies. It reminded him of high school, when they first met. The ring on
her finger burned in his hand, and for a moment he felt regret, but he covered it up with a
smile that revealed a chipped tooth that his mother had said was too expensive to get
fixed.
He told her the news after the movie, on the long walk back to the car. Misty
raindrops shimmered in the streetlights like stars, and the wind quietly played with their
hair. The first word out of her mouth was “Why?” and he told her. He told her he just
needed to. They drove home in silence except for her soft crying that he didn’t know how
to stop. He put his hand on her knee, but she brushed it off with the same hand that had
earlier welcomed his into its warmth. Oncoming headlights reflected her image onto the
windshield in front of him, taunting him. But he had set it in stone. He wanted to change
himself. He wanted someone screaming in his face, he wanted to wake up not knowing if
he would go back to sleep that night. He wanted to feel proud about himself. She would
never know this; never know why he just had to do it.
*
The next month he left their small home in the woods of West Virginia for boot
camp in North Carolina. It was the first time he had ever left the state, and the whole
drive was a delightful experience for him. He admired every blurry tree that rushed past
him, every street sign, and every mile marker. He had said his final goodbye to her at 4
am that morning. She had sat up in bed all night, occasionally drifting off, and when she
did, he heard her whisper his name into the darkness. “Tom… Tom…”
“What?” He would demand, but she was dreaming. Her arms moved restlessly
about until he took her in his arms, and she awoke and began to cry.
“Don’t go. Please… You can’t leave me here. You promised we would be
together forever…. Awful things might happen to you over there. I need you here. I’ll
protect you here…” He would answer her by staring straight ahead at the wall and
stroking her head with his hand, the same one that would later accompany something
capable of killing. At 3:30 am they were out the door on the way to the bus station. She
refused to drive him, but he threatened to take the car if she didn’t. When he stepped out
of the car she just stared at him. She looked neither upset nor mad. Her eyes just seemed
to reflect everything in front of them, but he couldn’t find his reflection in them. Tears
glided down her cheeks like sailboats over a waterfall. “I love you.” He said.
“Goodbye Tom.”
*
The next time they saw each other he was a marine. He seemed bigger. He was
different to her. His uniform made him look handsome, she did finally admit to him. He
just smiled and took her in his arms for the first time in a month. He had one week with
her before he was shipped to Iraq, which he spent most of sleeping on the back porch in
their dusty old hammock with her laying by his side, her face buried in his neck, taking in
every element of him. But rather than being an enjoyable week, it was filled to the brim
with stress, fighting, and tears. As much as he tried to avoid the subject, it seemed to be
all she knew, like she was an infant who had just learned a new word. She begged and
begged him to not go, suggesting crazy things such as running away, and even pretending
to be gay. He brushed these suggestions away, and gave them no chance to circulate
through his already cluttered mind. The night before he left was the worst. As he was
packing his final things, she called him out back to the porch. “Tom,” She said sternly, “I
just want to let you know that I can’t promise you anything.” He looked at her puzzled,
and before he could answer, she continued. “I love you more than anything, and you
know that. Everyone does. But you doing this… this terrible thing to me… It makes me
question your love for me.” The way she called it a “thing” struck him hard, and for the
first time he hit her. It was a quick, crisp slap to the cheek. She was stunned, and before
she could yell he did. “Listen to me. It’s not a goddamned thing Kelly. You think I’m
doing this shit to hurt you? You think all of this somehow revolves around you? I have so
much damn shit going on in my life right now that you don’t even know about… that I
can’t even tell you and it fucking hurts bad. I’m doing this for me; this is something I
need for myself. If you want me to ever be happy, to ever be able to look at myself and
smile, you will let me do this, damnit!” She just stared at him, and tears welled in her
eyes. But he was sick of them. All she did was cry, complain, and mope. All week he put
up with it, and built a wall around himself to block it out. She turned and walked back to
the house. He was gone before she woke up.
*
It was nothing like he planned. Nothing like he expected. Boot camp hadn’t
prepared him for this. All day they just sat around. They cleaned their rifles,
disassembled them, and reassembled them. They talked about girls, cars, and money. But
mostly girls. It was hot as hell; actually, he was quite sure that it was hotter than hell. He
wrote his first letter to her three days after he arrived. He apologized for everything,
telling her that he loved her and promised to marry her when he came home. He spent
hours crafting it, trying to find the right words, arranging them like a jigsaw puzzle. After
all he had plenty of time in the desert. All the other guys made fun of him, and it resulted
in a small scuffle ending with a broken nose and fat lip, both on the other guy. They
stopped making fun of him after that. It was two weeks before he got a letter back. She
wrote that she was sorry for making it so difficult on him, and that she promised to wait
for him. She wrote about how their neighbors home had been broken into, and after a
couple hours of investigation by the sheriff it was discovered to have been a raccoon. She
told him how she covered his side of the bed in pictures of him and pillows, so she still
felt close to him. She wrote about everything, whether she thought he would like it or not.
He liked every word, because her hand, the same one that would soon have a ring on it,
wrote them.
*
It was early when they heard the shots. Quick short bursts, followed by louder,
elongated explosions. They all grabbed their rifles and ran outside. Their commander
informed them that it was miles away, and was most likely a small group of militia trying
to intimidate them. In the morning he would send five marines into the city to check
things out, but he said he doubted any of the militia would be left, because they were
“goddamned pussies that only showed themselves at night”.
She had a nightmare that night. She was running with him; hand in hand in a field
when suddenly the sky turned black. His hand turned to a claw and gripped hers tightly
and began to pull. She was not afraid at first because she was with him, and told him that
it hurt her and to please let go. But he kept pulling. Suddenly the ground opened up, and
he pulled her through the hole with him. She was in the middle of the desert. He was
standing with a group of marines, all in camouflage. He looked at her, then he
disappeared, and she was alone. Alone in the desert. Gunshots sounded in the distance,
and a black and red ball of fired tumbled toward her. She woke in a sweat, and rolled
over to grab him, but he wasn’t there. It had been 46 days since he had been there.
In the morning at base camp, as promised, the commander selected five of the one
hundred marines to carry out the operation. “Don’t get too damned excited… I already
know what’s goin’ to happen. Yer’ gonna’ git’ there, look around, see a buncha’ damn
street vendors, some sand bag is gonna’ try and sell you a porno or somethin’, then yer
gonna come back here. And you ain’t gonna have a damn VCR to watch yer movie.
HOO-RAH!”
“HOO-RAH!” They all yelled in unison. Tom was one of them. He had waited in
this desolate desert for far too long, and was in desperate need of any action. Anything
that actually felt real, that he was sure existed. It was just as he clicked a new magazine
into his M16 that the mail came. The letter was dropped on his bed in front of him
carelessly, like a bone dropped out of a dog’s mouth. The wind threatened to blow it
away, so Tom grabbed it. He wouldn’t have opened it if it wasn’t for the sole fact that it
wasn’t addressed “Tom Hillbridge, My love”. It was only addressed “Tom Hillbridge”.
No love, no anything. The return address was that of his home. It had to be from Kelly.
He tore it open like a beast ripping into the flesh of its prey. His eyes soared over the ink,
then back over again, and again, for there was only one lonely paragraph filled with
words that cut through him with more pain than he knew was possible. He dropped the
letter and collapsed onto the bed. “Hillbridge! Get your ass up, the hummer leaves in
three minutes and you better be on there!” His captain shouted into the tent like he was
talking over a jet engine, his words spraying the tent like shrapnel.
“Sir…I can’t go, sir,” he dryly breathed into the air.
“All right, cut the crap. You and I both know nothing is going to happen. By now
that little group is probably over the horizon-“
“It’s not that sir. I got a letter, sir, from my girl-“
“Oh, goddamnit Hillbridge! I’m not your mother, or your psychiatrist. All I know
is that just about every one of us here got that same damned letter at some point. What
did you expect when you joined the marines? For your life to get better? Hell, we sit out
here in the desert all damned day watching scorpions pick each other apart. How can you
expect life to get better? Get your shit, we’re movin’ out, now.”
It was the first time any of them had been into the city, or lack of. The streets
were littered with papers and trash bags, and were lined with tents and rickety booths
selling anything from camel heads to knives. The mission was simple. Drive down a few
streets and make sure whatever was there last night wasn’t there anymore. But it seemed
as if nothing was there. The streets were quiet except for a few vendors and beggars. The
hummer grumbled down pot hole infested streets with little or no sign of any life. Ricky,
the marine manning the machine gun turret, nervously drummed his fingers on the
trigger. A white Toyota cruised past them, with three bearded men who sat motionless in
the car as they turned the corner. The hummer slowed to a stop.
“All right,” The captain spoke without any emotion, “We’re gonna get out and
just have a look around these buildings… Alpha fox radioed over that these were the
coordinates that all that damn noise came from. Lock and load.”
They all jumped out in unison, and Ricky, the machine gunner, lead them into the
building. It was surprisingly cold inside; Tom took note of, as they crept through the
door. Their feet crunched on broken slats of concrete and debris as they went from room
to room. Alpha fox had been right; there were empty shells everywhere and an
abandoned mortar, but no sign of anyone. “Ok, let’s wrap it up. That’s enough excitement
for one day,” the captain announced as they headed for the door.
“Waste of time, man,” Ricky moaned as his body passed through the portal into
the desert heat, “Could have been readin’ Hustler, or somethin’,” He turned to grin at
Tom as he stepped into the blinding light of the noon sky. Just as he did this, a
thunderous crash sounded from a building top across the street, and Ricky’s once smiling
face was now splattered all over Tom. Before he could even react, the captain threw him
onto the ground.
“Sniper!” He shouted. “On that roof, across the street. Fuck! He got him. Listen,
there’s only one of ‘em. We’re going to get into that back room and fire from the
window, should be a good shot. Bildress, grab Rick, poor son of a bitch, pull him through
the doorway.” The marines crowded in to the back room, all eager to get a look at the
man who had just obliterated their machine gunners head. “Hillbridge! Jump out this
window and run behind those barrels and see if you can get a shot with the M24!” Tom
stared at him for a moment, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. He
thought about the thin line between life and death, happiness and sorrow. He thought
about Kelly, at home without him. He thought about his decision to leave her, for selfish
reasons. He came here to change his life, to make himself more of a man, but instead he
felt less of a man than ever before. He felt like a traitor. In order to serve his country he
had left behind something more valuable to him than pride, and now that something was
almost gone. He needed to go home, and there was only one way.
In his head the whole thing was simple to him like scratching an itch when it
itched. Something easy, and that had to be done. He would expose a bit of his leg for the
sniper to hit, and then get sent home. He would receive a purple heart, and his condition
would surely bring Kelly back to him. He didn’t think of any consequences, anything that
could possibly go wrong. He slowly jogged to the barrels, trying to attract attention. He
focused his sight on the top of the building where the man killer laid. But he was gone.
The rifle lay on the roof, and the man was nowhere to be seen. Tom frantically looked
around; his ticket home had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared in his head. He
dropped the rifle, put his head in his hands and wept. All he could think of was how he
was trapped in a life without meaning. Every day he woke up and sat in the heat, and
thought about what he didn’t have.
He didn’t hear the car. It wasn’t because he was too deep in thought; it was
simply because the gunfire overpowered its engine. A shot to the shoulder sprawled him
out over the barrels. As he lay in the dirt, his working left arm desperately searched for
his rifle. The white Toyota sped toward him. It was something out of a Vietnam War
movie. The kind where the helicopter gunfire lit up the dirt as it quickly approached the
hero as he made his escape, every bullet just missing him. Except this was real. The first
tire went over his left leg, as it made a sharp turn. The front bumper struck his helmet,
immediately knocking him unconscious. His helpless body lay limp in the dirt, under
clouds of gunfire and dust, blanketing him like death.
*
She lay out in the hammock in his arms. The air was unusually thick for
September, and the lightening bugs took full advantage of it. He fondly stroked her head,
as her fingers found their place in his hand. The phone rang. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She whispered into the darkness.
The conversation was brief. Tom was due home in two days, after suffering lifethreatening injuries the week before, and was now on life support. Since both his parents
were dead, they had to contact her. She needed to be at the hospital at 2:00 pm Friday
afternoon to make the decision on whether or not to pull the plug that breathed life into
Tom’s body. There was no telling if he would ever wake up again. “Ok.” She whimpered
lifelessly into the phone. “Ok.”
He was laying in the hammock out back with her, their favorite spot to relax and
enjoy each other. He didn’t know how he got there, or how long he had been there. All he
knew was that she was finally with him. He kissed her forehead, and she smiled up at
him. He was unable to move, but that was ok with him, he had all he needed. His world
was perfect.
“Why is he smiling like that?” Kelly asked the doctor through sobs. It was the
sixth day that she had visited him, and his lips still remained in a smile. “His eyes aren’t
even open… why are his lips smiling?”
“It’s a phenomenon we can’t really explain,” explained the tall doctor, “He might
be dreaming, it might just be natural for his lips to be like that. May I ask though, is your
decision final, I mean, I know you signed the papers and everything, but is it what you
really want? I mean, I can’t say that he will wake up, but you never know in cases like
this.”
“Yes.” She tried to sound as strong as possible. “I’m sure this is what I want. I
can’t see him like this. It isn’t right. It’s not him.” The tall doctor nodded, and asked if
she wanted to do it herself. She said no, she couldn’t. And she left the room. Left the
hospital. Left their home, and left the town. He stayed in the hammock. Stayed with her,
stayed in his own perfect world. And in that world, he forgot the reason why he had left
her, and she never asked him again. A breeze blew and rocked them back and forth, back
and forth.
Jackson Buttery
One Day Forever
On a particular Friday morning, Jamison Ross and his father exit the white-metal
screen door of their Northeast Philadelphia row-home into the dewy chill of early April.
Jamison is still very much asleep and carries his container of coffee with crucifixproximity to his heart. His father lights a cigarette and pushes his fingers through his
thick hair. The day, gloomy now, remains a hopeful light by virtue of its position in the
week. It has perhaps too much burden on its shoulders, that before the onset of a maybe
Saturday and a lazy Sunday it alone can drag the past four days from numbness to an
Epicurean resuscitation.
Their street is much like any other row-home street in Philadelphia. Dilapidating
houses, Siamese twins sporting small grass beards no more than ten feet wide by five feet
long. The eyes of each house always off-center and seemingly sad, as if their faces could
use a bit more touch-up or that they wished they didn’t have to look out forever unto the
bleak street until they are demolished or abandoned. The street itself is littered with all
sorts of things that people no longer want:
Cigarette butts, cigarette boxes, empty bottles glass and plastic clear and green
and brown, a greasy blackening banana peel, gobs of what seems like spit, darkened wet
leaves, a cd shattered into tens of glistening pieces, gray rustling debris, ornate garden
bricks meant to close in a small tree, dirt, bags of potato chips, used diabetes test strips,
streaks of blackened burnt rubber molded into the street itself, pieces of paper that maybe
once had words but are illegible now, plastic bags yellow and translucent, ripped and
whole and limp, some trapped onto the street under various liquids, some trapped inside
the leaves and branches of the small trees that intermittently line the street, some floating
dreamily after the wind collides with them and carries them away.
Along the alley running between the backs of Orbison and Brash Avenues the
faces of the houses look even sadder, older, and more worn. The eyes of the houses are at
first glance linear and symmetrical but at second glance just the slightest bit off, as if the
builders couldn’t have given a damn whether the windows were straight or not. Small
fences, some metal, some slightly ornate, and some wooden, separate would-be
driveways. The surface of the alley looks like hardened sand and is just as rough. At the
end of the alley before the turn onto Orbison Avenue a massive group of potholes slows
any exit. When Jamison’s Father drives over them, the potholes and the potholes deeper
in the surface potholes, he makes obnoxious noise like he’s being punched in the
stomach. The stomach of his son moves up and down and contracts quickly, laughing but
simultaneously trying to hold the laughter in.
Jamison’s father’s car rumbles to life each morning, sputtering out dusty smoke to
combat the rising sun. Lying down knees bent but still brushing up against the dash,
Jamison watches with half-open eyes as Philadelphia- the beautiful desolate- rises to meet
the oncoming daylight. The rays of sunlight catch his father’s face to reveal a man who is
older than he looks. Behind the steering wheel the pungent cool of his menthol cigarettes
stings his son awake from time to time.
The road passes underneath them bumpy, porous and smooth. Crews come out at
two in the morning to fix it when they expect few cars on the road. Jamison has seen
them a few times, men in orange day-glo with white reflective stripes, beating the heart
and the sides of the road with shovels and picks and trampling it with all sorts of vehicles,
but, mostly, standing around drinking something. Coffee or Beer or something else
hidden in protective containers, drinks that make sense only in the dark. Sometimes the
crews work in the daytime too, but not as often. The drivers can never stand them, as if
they’re just being paid to sit around and pretend to work. The roads never seem to be
completely fixed anyway.
Besides the roads driving mostly like oatmeal, the car shakes non-stop. The fat,
aging Romanian mechanic down Frankford Avenue said it’s fine now; it’ll still run and
that it’ll work itself out. A few weeks have passed since the 1996 Volvo 960 has been
checked and it has certainly deteriorated since then. Wispy smoke falls fat from the
heating vents as Jamison’s father cranks the defrost to a musty eighty degrees, but that
problem has been there for a while. The biggest problem now is that when the car shakes
Jamison has to raise his voice to make himself heard.
“Jame,” his father says randomly after the conversation has stopped for ten
minutes after Jamison closed his eyes for a while. “Do you know what you’re doing
tonight yet?” A short pause follows as Jamison makes a show of opening his eyes, but he
regrets it almost immediately, thinking that with the pause his father now expects him to
produce a better response than he can give. Before he speaks Jamison emits a sigh
audible only to himself over the rumbling of the burdened engine.
“umm, I don’t really know yet, dad,” he says, thinking immediately that what he
said came off as too bitter. The pause that follows fills quickly with the loud sputtering of
the engine and the speed of the car against the surroundings of Interstate 95. The pause
seems to drag on for minutes. Jamison, still unsure if he should continue speaking or
concede to his father, closes his eyes and turns towards the window to lay on his side,
back glaring at his father.
“Well,” his father begins, “I’ll be done work around one-thirty, so let me know
what you’re doing later, or call Sarah earlier if you need to, she’ll be up til around ten or
eleven. I can get you. Don’t forget that; I don’t want you sleeping on a park bench or
something.”
Jamison again pauses, waiting for something more from his father. Sighing, he
reluctantly speaks: “Alright, yeah, I’ll let you know when, but I’m going to try to stay
down there.” The last words diminish so that Jamison isn’t really sure his father heard
them or not. His father turns his head to look at him, speaks,
“Alright that’s fine Jame, just let us know what you’re doing and what you need,”
and the rumbling again returns dominant.
Perhaps another ten minutes pass, perhaps twenty. It’s a forty-five minute drive to
get to school, everyday; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. It’s hard to get used to
because the highway itself is so inconsistent. But at least each morning never feels the
same. The days that are always the same are the ones which kill us.
Finally the car arrives at Rutledge High School. “Jame,” his father says abruptly,
“wake up man.” The Volvo’s brakes whistle sharply as the car stops in the student dropoff zone of the school parking lot. Jame mutters something to his father and then exits the
front seat, moving with the shuffle of a high school senior to retrieve his back-pack from
the back seat. His father sits now facing Jamison with his right-hand placed gently upon
the back of the passenger-seat headrest, waiting. Jamison clumsily closes, re-opens then
re-closes the back door to make sure it’s shut. Still waiting, the father, Ernest, raises his
voice to Jamison as his soon looks in through the passenger window.
“I’ll see you later Jame. Have a great day at school!”
After a slight pause as Jamison begins walking to the door of his school, Ernest
continues. “Oh and call me or Sarah later if you need to be picked up. I’ll be done around
1:30.” The Volvo slowly drives away from Jamison as he walks towards the sideentrance to his school. He shifts his eyes around when he walks but mostly keeps his
head down. The people are all the same anyway.
The walk to school is numb. It’s a Friday and the sun is out but Jamison is cold.
His city, Philadelphia, is dying slow and prolonged. Orbison Avenue, dirty and ignorant,
is dying tortured and humiliated. The Volvo 960 1996 will die valiant and meaningless.
His father will die of cancer quietly into the night. Like them, Jamison, too, is dying.
*
*
*
School itself is slow. The day, from 7:30 A.M to 2:30 P.M, is sectioned into six
periods with a thirty-minute lunch bisecting the six periods. The first of the six periods
drowns slowly in the music from Jamison’s earphones. Second period isn't as boring only
because it's non-academic - gym. Jamison struggles to win at hockey, running until he's
sore, but it's finally something that encapsulates his brain. Third period is after gym and
sweaty. The sweat from Jamison's pants sticks to his seat and he squirms to hide it. Too
tired to speak and too embarassed to keep moving but even more embarassed to be
discoved, Jamison lapses again into his mind, waiting for something more from himself.
The bell rings, finally, and the class diasporates into the hallway and to where they are
supposed to be.
The air in the library is heavy, still, and dead. That's the first thing you notice about it.
As Jamison enters for fourth period the metal suspension of the door vibrates open and
the librarians at the front desk raise their heads from their computers. He's sure they can
hear his shoes shuffle across the mauve carpeting that lines the floor because they're still
looking up at him. Students sit sparsely throughout the library on computers and at tables,
left to themselves and whatever returns their gazes. Yellow-gray sheets of sunlight, pale,
hang around the windows and lie silent, almost flat on the floor.
Alan Dunkel, studying quietly, sits at a small round wooden table towards the
back of the library. The light seems to shy away from him, dimming further the ghostly
pallor of his pale translucent skin. He hasn’t yet noticed Jamison enter because nothing in
the library has moved and nothing will until the clanging rhythm of the fifth-period bell
signals the end of fourth period.
Alan always smells like cigarettes in the morning as Jamison sits down next to
him. They have had this period together, every day, since the beginning of the year.
Every day it’s the same except for the one day Alan gave Jamison the test. Usually they
sit around and whisper about ideas coming from their mouths but bigger than both of
them combined. Alan likes to lead the discussions and Jamison allows him, so that he can
sit back and interpret and analyze his “friend” reeking of cigarettes before him.
They talk about everything. Girls but not the physical details; emotional pain but
never its depth; their lives and their depression but never how they live and if they think
they’ll ever escape it. Sometimes the period passes by quickly but most days it seems, to
Jamison, an endless string of whispered words, of smoke and mirrors.
A few weeks ago they did something together to break the monotonous challenge
of bullshitting a period away. Alan, studying music therapy independently, selected
Jamison from his group of friends to give a Rohrshach Inkblot test to. They even left the
dead library that day. The test was set to music and Alan asked Jamison to identify
specific feelings, moods, tones and even objects in the random, symmetrical blotches of
ink. Nothing came up at first. But after a while Jamison knew it was his turn to talk and
started lying. He lied for the entire period as the red light on Alan’s tape recorder held
steady and as Alan nodded and spoke in a distant monotone. The pictures began to
become objects. Tones and moods, feelings even. But Jamison knew that he was still
lying; he was sure of it.
A week ago, after Alan had processed the results, the two began talking about
possible therapy options. Jamison was diagnosed with depression and Alan was going to
attempt to use music to partially alleviate some destructive feelings that were consuming
Jamison. Alan asked that Jamison pick five songs in decreasing order from most sad to
most happy and listen to them every night before bed, the idea being that because
Jamison would begin with unhappy feelings and end happy his mind would be tricked
into a temporary happiness.
Today as they sit in the library, Jamison and Alan whisper about the five songs
that Jamison has chosen. Alan has not yet listened to each and produces a small pair of
headphones. The two walk to a computer, sit down silently side-by-side, and Jamison
pulls up “Fuck You Lucy” on the internet, his second saddest song. Alan bobs his head to
the rap rhythm, up and down, and shakes his head and speaks louder than he perhaps
should. The words are nothing much, “wow,” and “this is the perfect song,” followed by
little shakes of his head and smiles that bear the teeth of a dead man and exhalations, as if
he’s starting to sweat a little. The librarians seem wary, with their big eyes leaving their
computer screens to watch Alan moving around and talking aloud with passion. The
library isn’t so dead anymore.
After one librarian plucks up the skinny courage to ask Alan to stop listening to
music during school hours Jamison prints out the lyrics to the song and he and Alan move
to a table to begin the dissection. It’s a rap song, angry and hurt, intricate in its simplicity.
There are three verses, but the middle one always repeats in Jamison’s head:
I wanna stand on top of this mountain and yell
I wanna wake up and break up this lake of hell
I feel like a bitch for letting the sheet twist me up
The last star fighter is wounded time to give it up
On a pick it up mission
Kept it bitter
Getting in a million memories just to forget her
The difficulty in keeping emotions controlled
Cookies for the road
Took me by the soul
Hunger for the drama
Hunger for the nurture
Gonna take it further
The hurt feels like murder
Interpret
The eyes
Read the lines on her face
The sunshine is fake
How much time did I waste?
I wanna scream fuck you Lucy
But the problem is I love you Lucy
The chorus, too, accompanies him throughout the day:
And everyone in his life would mistake it as love
Everyone in his life would mistake it as love
Everyone in his life would mistake it as love
As he sits with Jamison and begins to discuss the relation of “Lucy” to Jamison’s
girlfriend Alina, Alan can not cage the eagerness of his voice. “I’m really impressed with
with this song selection man,” he begins, and after adding a short pause and a slight
exhale for dramatic effect, cements, “really impressed man.” Still shaking his head and
even closing his eyes for a few seconds at a time, Alan continues to speak in Jamison’s
general direction. “This is perfect for describing your relationship, perfect,” he says
squeezing his eyelids tighter each time that he says the word “perfect.” “I mean, I know
you and her were having some problems, with her being depressed and you starting to go
through therapy, but I didn’t think it was this bad,” he says, almost shocked.
“Yeah,” Jamison begins. “I mean, it’s been like this for about a month I guess.”
He pauses there, running over the gears in his mind to determine whether or not he
should continue. Alan seems to notice the pause as his eyes, red as they are, fill with the
pale-gold sunlight hanging like hazy smoke throughout the room. Quietly, Jamison
inhales deeply into himself and waits.
“Well what’s going on with you and her? What are you going to do?” Alan asks,
now playing the role of friend rather than aspiring therapist. Jamison puts his pointer and
middle fingers up to his temple and Alan sees this as thought directed towards the
questions he has just asked, and continues. “You can’t keep doing this if its making you
this unhappy, man,” he says, sincere now. Jamison exhales loud enough for Alan to hear
and Alan pauses for a split-second before realizing that Jamison will default until he’s
done speaking. “I’m serious, man. If she’s a major cause of your depression, and she’s
not worth it…” He pauses and trails off, shrugging his shoulders as if he’s given too
much advice where it’s not his place to. Jamison looks at Alan and still says nothing.
“I know, I know. But I kind of think of it like this: If I’m depressed and haven’t
killed myself yet, why should I dump her only because I’m mostly unhappy? I think it’ll
get better,” he says to the round, wooden table. The fifth-period bell clangs metallically.
Together Alan and Jamison walk their English class. On the way there they talk about the
substitute teacher who will be in English today.
Jamison wants to talk more about Alina to someone, for chrissake. He’s feeling so
goddam alive but English is so deathly quiet as the students all open laptops and plug in
their earphones. Alan sits in the corner, busy; Jamison goes over to him wanting to pick
up their earlier conversation. Alan looks up and points at his computer screen: that means
he’s too busy to even mention that he’s busy. Jamison retreats again to his headphones.
If only, he thinks, he could tell Alan how complex his relationship with Alina is. If only
he could explain that he hates her more than he hates himself, that because she is
something closer to him than he is to himself he directs his rage to her first. Fuck You
Lucy blares on repeat as English drowns in its silence. But maybe it’s more than
drowning, Jamison thinks; maybe it’s the fact that you know you’re underwater but
you’re used to it. Maybe you even like it down there because the rage at Alina, at
yourself, at friends like Alan and caretakers like your father just won’t come out of you.
It’s there, Jamison knows, that fire. That heat that burns inside and won’t go out even
when you can’t feel it. You choke in your sheets at odd hours of the morningand shake
when talking to those close to you and bite your lip so that the inside of it bleeds when
you’ve got something to say. The fire is there. But you’re underwater, Jamison thinks,
hypnotizing himself with his anger. You’ve got a listener and all you’ve got to do is say
how you feel. Tell him that you love her, that’ll start something. Tell him that you love
her and that’s enough reason to stay with her. But you won’t. Pussy. Fucking coward.
Speak, fuck you, speak!
Fuck you Lucy, for defining my existence.
The rest of the day melts into nothing because it has no substance. Periods change
and Jame keeps his headphones in and walks numb through the crowded hallways. Lost
in Fuck You Lucy he begins to drown in himself.
*
*
*
Alina is standing outside of her small house in a t-shirt as the Mustang Coupe
pulls into the parking lot of her living community. She has butterflies in her stomach, six
months into the relationship, as Jamison exits the car door and walks over to her. They
don’t hug; they don’t kiss- Jamison will wait until his friends drive away. Even after the
Mustang roars to its exit, surely to cause complaints in the community of Silence
Dogooders, neither Alina nor Jamison moves any closer to one another than before. It’s
too late, whereas during the initial reaction of pure ecstasy the desperateness of their
embrace would have been unnoticeable, now it’s much too terrifying to attempt outside
where the entire community might see, in the daylight even.
The inside of the house is small and choked. After the door is completely shut
Alina and Jamison are met by the sweeping strides of Alina’s mother Milena. “Hi
Jaymesunn” she says, contorting his name with her Polish-accented English. As Jamison
raises his head to look at her, her back is already to him as she enters the small kitchen
and pretends to wipe something off of the table with her pretty hands. “Hi Milena”
Jamison slowly returns, walking into the kitchen as she runs her hands under cold water
and soap.
Milena rotates her head slightly over left shoulder, always moving for some
unknown reason, disregarding Jamison’s formality to look at Alina. “Aleeena” she says
drawing out the e to let her daughter know that she wants a favor, “could youuu pleease
take out the trash and recycles? I was too busy to do it today and I can’t do it later.”
Jamison laughs inside himself when he hears her English but Alina is used to it.
“No” she begins firmly, “I don’t want to mom I just came home.” A quick silence fills
the air before Milena lets out a pained sigh. “Aleena” she wines, “please do this for me
I’m busy right now. Why can’t you do this?” The tone of her voice changes. It’s angry,
blaming. “Ever since Jaymesun started coming over all the time you have no time to help
me. You should be doing your school work Aleena.”
Alina, a small five-foot-two, stands frozen by the entrance to the kitchen. Arms
folded over her chest, she leans on the open doorway that leads into the slender hallway
into the central area of the house. Jamison stands awkwardly at the other side of the
entrance, barely inside the kitchen. Alina turns to him for help as the five-foot seven
frame of her mother begins the two step sweep towards her. Her eyes seem watery and
hopeless. Jamison turns away because he knows what’s coming. His stomach flares up
and his arms start so shake; his hands clench tightly into fists as he as hears the hard and
wet snap of Milena’s palm against Alina’s face. Milena sweeps away from the kitchen
waving her hand in the air as if the pressure is too much and she wishes it would all go
away. Swallowing the last of her Polish vodka she stomps up the stairs and slams a door,
distant, before letting out a shrill scream that Alina and Jamison can hear perfectly.
Jamison stares deeply into Alina’s muddy eyes as she backs abruptly into the
corner formed by the kitchen counter and the side of the entrance into the hallway. Her
knees bend and her eyes loom desperately large before him glassy and vulnerable. She’s
falling to the floor. Jamison begins to move but he can’t move fast enough because she’ll
hit the linoleum before he gets his arms around her to pull her up. For a split second he
watches her as she hits the ground. Alina’s beautiful Polish face, polished and smooth as
white marble, grimaces in pain as her arms graze the counter and the entrance to the
hallway. She sits with her head in her knees and her arms wrapped around her legs.
Quietly, she sobs. There are no tears, just a labored sort of breathing, a lack of oxygen to
the brain as the mind struggles to gain control of itself. Jamison watches as she rocks
herself back and forth and huskily moans “huhh, whuhh, hwuh.” Finally he puts his arms
down her back and she moans into his stomach and blows her nose in the middle of his tshirt. Neither speak; Jamison holds Alina and Alina cries and both want it to stop but
both are afraid of what has happened. Jamison feels uncomfortable.
A door opens somewhere upstairs. “Aleena?” comes a shrill voice. Alina is silent.
“Aleena” Milena says a bit nicer, “could you please come help me?” Jamison grasps her
tighter to his stomach. Moments pass and the silence of the house hangs over Jamison’s
eyes like a grey satin veil. Alina trembles beneath him and he can feel the middle of his
shirt dampening slightly. “Aleeena?” the voice comes angry now, pained. “Aleena tell
Jaymeesunn go, just go!” Milena screams, tears of frustration in her voice. Jamison
removes his arms from Alina’s back. “Jame?” she wispers.
“I have to do this” he says.
The walk from the kitchen feels wrong. Jamison can hear Alina moaning. He can
still feel her head in his stomach. Each step increases his rage. This Polish woman, lying
drunk in her bed, has the nerve to ask him to leave? She struck her daughter in front of
me, Jamison thinks, as he climbs the stairs one-by-one, slowly, and dares to ask me to
leave?
As the top stair melds into the upstairs hallway Jamison visualizes what he’ll do
to Milena. First he pictures dragging her out of bed and throwing her to the floor. It’ll be
tough because she’s a big woman and drunk and she’ll put up a fight. He imagines
smashing her goddam green vodka bottle over her head if she won’t move. Then it’ll be
easier to take her downstairs. Once they make it downstairs he’ll bring her over to the
dining room table, the big glass one. Her head will go right through the fucking middle of
that table where the flowerpot is now. The glass will break, he imagines, but he wants a
lot of noise. He wants Alina to hear her mother scream because Milena will scream for
him. Her cries will let Alina understand what’s inside of him. Jamison is finally full of
something, the anger coursing through his veins like lighting as he raises his right hand to
open the door. Just kill her, he thinks. Just kill the fucking bitch and end it. Show Alina
that there’s something inside of you.
He opens the door. Milena lies on her stomach with her hair wildly thrown about
her face and pillow. Jamison closes the door and walks down the stairs. Alina raises her
head to look at him with those fucking stupid eyes as he enters the kitchen. “Jame?” she
wispers. He sits on the floor next to her and puts his head in her chest.
*
*
*
Finally after a few hours hiking at a park and a nice sushi dinner, Jamison and
Alina are alone and somewhat happy. They sit in Alina’s parked car on a dark street as
car lights intermittently pass. The car is quiet. The two speak in mostly whispers as they
recount the day and make promises that there will never be another one like it. The
promises quickly turn to kisses.
Alina dives into the back seat and Jamison follows her. His knees brush the fuzzy
roof of Alina’s slick Acura. The black leather is slippery and rough. They start kissing
slowly. Jamison runs his hands over Alina’s white marble skin, smoothing out the bruises
from her mother. Neither has spoken yet. Their tongues slither around in asymmetrical
patterns and explore what feels best. The car’s interior is hot and damp with sticky-cool
sweat.
Alina likes to run her hands over Jamison’s back. As she does this he presses his
chest flat on her and shoves his head into the crook of her neck. Sometimes there they’ll
whisper to each other about love and what they expect their lives to be once they’re
married. Alina likes her neck kissed. Jamison switches between kissing it tightly with
pursued lips and running his tongue over it. Alina feels good close to him. Flipping her
onto her back Jamison presses his hands hard upon her breasts. She whispers from time to
time.
“Jame,” she says quietly. “My Jamison.”
Slowly sliding Alina’s jeans down past her knees and ankles, Jamison kisses the
inner thighs of his Polish bride. She feels warm against him. A creature with life. He
teases her now, running his tongue slowly up and down small portions of her inner thighs
waiting for her to beg.
“O Jamison” she whispers, curling the hair by his ears with her small fingers. “I
love you.”
“Alina” Jamison says, looking up for a moment, “I’m so happy with you.”
Soon he is inside of her. Fifteen minutes pass and Jamison starts to feel mechanic
as he watches Alina’s little body shake in ecstasy. Soon it’s thirty minutes and she
hanging on him now, so close that he wants her off of him because he just wants to come
and get the fuck out of this car because she smells so goddam terrible when she’s sweaty
and the only way out of this day is sleep. After fourty-five minutes with Alina sweating
like a damn dog on top of him the rhythm of her fleshy hips against his increases speed
and he fucks her. It’s different than anytime before because he’s grabbing her now and
telling her what to do. He pushes himself deeper and deeper inside this little girl and
squeezes tightly with his hands. Alina tells him that she loves him but after an hour she’s
already had three or four orgasms. She keeps saying that she loves him over and over.
She keeps repeating his name, whispering it over and over. “Jamison, Jamison, Jamison.”
I, I mean fuck it, Jamison grabs her by the hips and makes sure that he finishes. Jamison
grabs her and holds her close to me and then pushes her away from him. He fucks her and
I love her. He makes her scream and drives her crazy and I make her cry and try to make
her smile. I massage her lower lip with mine and he hits her ass with the flat palm of his
right hand. Jamison fucks her like he wants to and it’s still not enough. Over and hour
and a half have gone by and we still haven’t came and I’m pissing me off because I
haven’t told her I love her once and I’m letting Jamison stay quiet and please her like she
wants to be pleased. Enough of this sensual shit, just let Jamison handle her, I think.
I shut myself off and Jamison smothers her into his chest and pulls her closer to
his thighs. She’s crying now because she’s so goddam tired and Jamison is still handling
her roughly. She’s crying because she loves both me and Jamison and hates us at the
same time, because she wants to be loved and fucked. Finally Jamison closes his eyes
and pretends that she’s not there as he comes and she shivers on top of him.
I try to make myself cry like she is as she tells me that she loves me so much, that
I shouldn’t ever leave her, but I can’t. I hug her and hold her and tell her that I love her
but I don’t mean it. I never have.
*
*
*
Jamison went home after sex in Alina’s car. It’s just me and her as I wait for my
and Jamison’s father to pick me up at two in the morning from Alina’s house. We sit on a
couch not five feet from where I should have murdered Milena earlier today. That way I
wouldn’t have had to see how Jamison handled Alina. We don’t really talk, just smile at
each other once in a while. My dad calls and I kiss Alina goodbye as I look her into her
muddy brown eyes and tell her that I love her and that tonight was incredible. That even
though the day was tough we made it through and made something beautiful of it. I lie. I
exit the door from her house and enter the door of my father’s 1996 Volvo 960, black as
death itself. We drive into the night towards home where Jamison waits for me. I close
my eyes and hope that my father won’t wake me up when we finally make it home.
Courtney Chominski
The Final Piece to the Puzzle
Deep within the woods, past the vast bamboo forest, down a winding trail, there is
a majestic, vast open park beaming with beauty. It is tranquil and peaceful and a place
where I like to escape; comfort and relaxation enters my body as I lay here and let the
wind weave in and out of my hair. My eyes widen are filled with light; happiness always
conquers my body when I come here. I cannot help but stare at God’s work that lies in
front of me. Lying on the moist, green grass below me I hear the sound of water rippling
downstream. The smooth, sensational sounds escape into my body and slowly I drift
away from reality; the music of nature fills my heart. An abundance of leaves blankets
the stream’s surface that lies ahead of me. I see an alluring array of deep reds, sunflower
yellows, and crisps greens. The colors, mixing, forming intricate designs, assemble into
the most breathtaking patterns; the inspiration any artists will weep over. Swaying in the
air above, a blur of color falls from the sky. It falls into the empty space, fitting perfectly,
like the final piece to the puzzle. Sweet sounds of the leaves gliding across the water’s
surface fill my ears. Why does everything in nature fit together so perfectly? This is a
question that always comes across my mind.
I heard the ring tone of my cell phone, which stole my relaxation away, and
brought me back to reality.
“Hey, come over and get ready with me. Andrew is having a party tonight and we
are going tonight.”
“I am not really in the mood to go to a party. I think I am just going to stay home
tonight.”
“You have no choice you’re coming out with me!”
I love my best friend, Victoria, with all my heart; I have known her since I was in
kindergarten. Sometimes she gets under my skin and I don’t want anything to do with
her. I am not the type of person who is capable of expressing my emotions; they are
trapped deep inside me and I lost the key. I let her run my life and I don’t do anything
about it. It is not that I don’t care it is just what I am used to. Another thing I am used to
is being Victoria’s second mother; I am always taking care of her. I don’t like going to
parties with her because I can never enjoy myself. She is a heavy drinker and does not
know her limits; every party we go to is a different story but always has the same ending.
I spend hours with her in the bathroom holding up her hair while she is face down in the
toilet. I sneak her back in my house, past my overly strict mom, so she doesn’t have to go
back home and get caught by her own mom for drinking. My life with Victoria is a
broken record; the same thing always happens.
I drove to her house and we spent a couple hours getting ready for the party.
Surprisingly she revealed to me that she didn’t want to drink tonight because she had to
get up early for her lacrosse tournament. I was thrilled because I could actually enjoy the
party and not worry about her safety the whole time. When we finally arrived at the party
Victoria and I naturally clung to each other until we found a group of people to strike up
a conversation with. I immediately had a connection with this handsome, dark skinned,
Italian boy named Brody. His crystal blue eyes lured me to him and his awkward sense of
humor kept me from leaving; we had a connection and it was obvious to everyone. We
sat on a cold, hard bench for hours just talking about whatever came to our minds. This
was the first time that I felt like I could express my emotions; I just kept talking and the
words naturally flew out of my mouth. Everything went well that night and my night
came to a perfect completion with our lips meeting one another.
Brody left the party before I did; once his presence left mine reality struck me. I
was still at the party with Victoria and she was drunk; as I approached her I could already
smell the liquor on her breath. I guess it was my fault that she got drunk because I was so
occupied with Brody that I wasn’t there to baby-sit her. I wanted to leave the party and I
tried for a good thirty minutes to get Victoria to come home with me; she wanted to stay
at the party and drink more. Eventually I persuaded her to come home with me; Brody
made my night like no other night but Victoria forced my night to come to the same
ending as it always does with her. I walked outside, holding Victoria up, and managed to
get her into my car without causing too much of scene. She was in no condition to sleep
at her house so I took her back to mine; I crept through the back door and walked
Victoria to my bedroom. I safely tucked in her to bed and walked to my mom’s room to
let her know I got home safe. When I got back to my room Victoria wasn’t in my bed; I
walked to the bathroom and found her facedown in my toilet. We got home from the
party around one in the morning, I glanced at my clock on my desk, and the numbers read
3:24 A.M. I had been taking care of her for over two hours; after she was done throwing
up I put her to bed. I set my alarm clock for seven in the morning because Victoria had a
lacrosse game that started at eight; I had no idea how she was going to be able to sprint
up and down the field the next morning.
With only about four hours of sleep I was extremely annoyed and pissed off to be
woken up that morning with the sound of the obnoxious alarm clock. I looked to my left,
Victoria was lying perfectly still with her mouth wide open with drool creeping out. She
was a mess and I was disgusted with her; I had to wash my sheets and clean my bathroom
to get rid of the horrible aroma of last night’s puke fest. I was so fed up but I didn’t plan
on yelling or saying anything at all to her. The awful, high pitch sound of the alarm did
not break her sleep; I didn’t know why I thought I would be any different. I shook her
gently at first and than started to shake her more forcefully. Victoria was whining and
groaning for me to leave her alone. Her game was in a half hour and Victoria was
nowhere close to be getting out of bed. I searched for her phone and sent her lacrosse
coach a text message pretending to be her.
“Hey Coach, I can’t make the game today because I have a wedding to go to.”
After I sent the message, I realized my excuse didn’t make much sense but I
didn’t care at the time. I tossed her phone to the side and started to clean up my room; if I
didn’t get rid of the awful stench lingering in my room my mom would have definitely
become suspicious. We didn’t have any Febreze in the house so I took my Armani
perfume, a Christmas gift from my brother, and sprayed it profusely all over my room in
the hopes to get rid of the smell of last night. About an hour passed, while I was cleaning
my room, when I heard Victoria get up.
`“What the hell, what time is it? I missed my game. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I tried but you wouldn’t listen to me. I tried for nearly twenty minutes. I texted
your lacrosse coach and told her you had a wedding to go to.”
“Are you serious? That is the best excuse you could have come up with?”
Victoria gathered her stuff from my floor and stormed out of my house. I called
her that night and apologized and begged her to forgive me. I knew deep down that I was
the one that should be getting the apology but I didn’t say anything. I just kept
apologizing to her to the point where I almost lost all of my pride. She told me she didn’t
want to speak with me for awhile because she was so pissed off that I would let her miss
her lacrosse game. Before I could say anything she hung up the phone. I sat on my bed
thinking of ways to make Victoria want to talk to me; my thinking was suddenly
disrupted when I received a call from Brody. I grabbed my phone and answered it right
away.
Brody called to tell me that he was taking me out to dinner that night around
seven. I was so excited to hear from him that I forgot all about Victoria. I wanted time to
fast forward to seven so I could see Brody. I spent hours trying on different outfits and
trying out different hair styles for my date. Eventually I tried on enough outfits until I
found the perfect one. I heard my doorbell ring and I sprinted to the door to greet Brody. I
opened the door; there he was standing as tall as ever with his perfect crystal, white
smile. We got in his car, the leather seats were cold on my legs, and we drove away. I
asked him where we were going but he wouldn’t tell me. Ten minutes later we pulled up
to a building; it didn’t look like a restaurant but I didn’t ask any questions. He told me
there was a change of plans and we were just going to hang out at his house. I didn’t feel
very comfortable at the moment but I ignored those feelings. We walked into his house
and it was a mess; there were dirty dished everywhere, dirty clothes scattered all over the
furniture, and the dishes were stacked up so high in the sink I was amazed the tower
didn’t collapse. I asked him where his parents were and he told me that he lived by
himself. When I discovered that it was just us two alone I felt very uncomfortable again; I
chose to dismiss those feelings and tried to enjoy myself. I didn’t know what we were
going to do the whole night but I was eager to find out.
The night started out slow with Brody and I relaxing on his couch talking about
casual things. I don’t know why I chose to bring up Victoria; I told Brody all about her
and the fight we had earlier that day. After about twenty minutes of talking about Victoria
I could tell Brody was getting tired of hearing me talk. He asked me what I wanted to do
and I suggested we watch a movie. For the rest of the night we watched a scary movie
and ate three bags of popcorn; I didn’t like scary movies at all but I was happy he chose
one for us to watch. At every scary scene I grabbed onto his arm and hid my eyes; this
was an excuse for me to get closer to him. I remember his arms being so strong and so
over powering; I could hardly wrap my hands around his forearm. I was satisfied with my
night with Brody and was happy that I spent a night away from Victoria.
Weeks had passed and Victoria still refused to talk to me so I hung out with
Brody every night for the next two weeks; we were really getting to know each other. I
thought I knew everything about him and I didn’t know how I could be so dumb to not
realize that he had a serious drug and alcohol addiction. He didn’t start drinking around
me until our third date. Besides Victoria, I didn’t really have anybody else to hang out
with so I enjoyed the company Brody gave me a lot. I should have dumped him right
away as soon as I realized he was a heavy drinker but I liked having someone there; if I
left Brody I would be alone. I didn’t have a best friend at the time but I had a boyfriend to
fill the empty spot.
The night Brody invited me to sleep at his house was the night I wished I had
never met this awful person; I feel more comfortable calling him a monster. The night
started off like every other night we spent together. He was already drinking heavily and
the night didn’t even start yet. About two hours passed and Brody had already drank eight
beers and took five shots of spiced rum. Almost every time we hung out Brody drank, but
this night was the first time he used drugs in front of me. I wasn’t a big a drinker but
Brody always persuaded me to drink with him. This time he was trying to persuade me to
do a line of cocaine with him. I refused. I was okay with drinking a few beers and taking
some shots but doing drugs was something I promised myself I would never do. I politely
said no to him and he immediately got really pissed off. I watched him do the line of
cocaine and I felt sick to my stomach. About thirty minutes passed and he asked me to try
it. Again, I politely rejected his offer. This time Brody was even more pissed off at my
refusal. He looked at me with a fierce look; I never saw this expression on anybody in my
life. He grabbed me by the arm, clenched his nails into my skin, and told me to do a line
of cocaine. Again, for the third time, I rejected him and told him to get off of me. Once
he let go of me I grabbed my purse and started to walk to the door. I heard his loud foot
steps behind me and suddenly felt his large, firm hands around my arm again. He pulled
me to the ground and told me I wasn’t allowed to leave. I started to scream. I didn’t know
what to expect. I closed my eyes and began to scream. He told me to shut up but I didn’t
listen. He screamed for me to shut up again but I just started to scream louder. He didn’t
bother to ask me to be quiet again, instead he raised his arm and punched me right in the
face. After the first punch another one followed. I tried to run away but I could break free
of his strong, massive hold he had on me. He punched me again in my face and another
time in my stomach. Eventually he got up and walked away. I didn’t know what caused
him to get up but I was so thankful that he did. I watched him peacefully walk to his
couch, sit down, and act like nothing happened. I sat there on the ground and watched
him for a minute or so. Amazingly, he just sat there and pretended I wasn’t even in the
room. I didn’t know why I was sitting there and didn’t immediately run out the door. I
think I was shocked, but part of me was upset that I had to leave Brody behind. I knew I
was going to be alone again. I managed to get myself off up of the cold, hard ground and
walked out his door.
When I arrived home my mom saw that I had a bloody nose and bruises all over
my face. She asked what happen and I told her I got hurt while playing lacrosse with
Victoria. I explained to her that I wasn’t any good at catching the ball and instead of the
ball landing in my stick it struck me in the face. Surprisingly she believed my excuse and
allowed me to go up to my room. At this point in my life I wished my mom and I were
closer so I could sit her down and tell her everything that happened. I couldn’t tell her. I
just didn’t feel right. My mom and I exchanged about ten words a day and hardly even
looked at each other. After the death of my brother, my family was torn apart; my mom
changed completely and didn’t talk to anyone. It was just my mom and I living in the
house but it always felt like I was living alone.
I sat on my bed and cried for hours; my tears were not shed for the physical pain
that Brody put upon be but for the emotional pain. The two people in my life that I
formed such a close bond with hurt me the most. I didn’t know what I did to deserve this.
About ten minutes passed and Brody called me; I didn’t answer the phone because I
never wanted to speak or see him again. I should have left him right when I saw that he
had an alcohol and drug problem. I was so annoyed and upset with myself all I could do
was cry. The crying went on for days, my eyes got so puffy that I could barely open
them. The bruises eventually faded on my face, but the pain I felt inside was shining as
bright as ever. A couple days later my phone rang again. It was Brody. I don’t know why
but I answered the phone. His cold voice spoke and told me to drive to his house because
he wanted to hang out.
I don’t remember much of the process of driving to his house. It was as if I was a
robot and I just did. One minute I was sitting on my bed the next I was at his front porch.
He let me in and asked me to sit on the couch. Brody went into the kitchen and brought
out two water bottles; I was expecting him to be carrying two beers. We sat on the couch
and he began to talk. I was feeling so many different emotions at this time I began to get
overwhelmed. I was nervous and terrified but at the same time happy, and relieved that I
wasn’t alone anymore. I thought this time with Brody was going to be different but I was
wrong. It was a repeat of the last time but worse. I don’t know what caused him to hit me
this time. Before I blamed it on the cocaine, but this time Brody was sober. He hit me so
hard in the chest that it was hard for me the breath. He kept hitting me and screaming at
me and all I could do was lay there. For some reason I felt like I deserved this. I was the
one that went back to him. How could I be so stupid? He just kept hitting me and I laid
there.
When I arrived home, I decided I would sneak into my room to avoid having to
give my mom another excuse about what happened to me. Again, I sat on my bed and
cried for hours until I heard my phone ring again. It was him. He was calling me again. I
don’t know why I answered but I did. It was a repeat of the last two nights. I went over
Brody’s house every day for the next week; he was a monster and I was lured into his
trap. I felt like I had no control. To this day I don’t know why I continued to go over his
house. I continued to stay with Brody for the next month. I needed someone there to fill
the empty spot of Victoria.
My relationship with Brody suddenly stopped. It was not my choice to cease the
relationship. Brody wouldn’t call me anymore and he would answer my texts. I called
him for three days straight and he refused to pick up his phone. After about a week I
decided to give up. I don’t know what caused him to stop talking to me but he did. It was
as if he erased me from his life and forgot all about me. Looking back, I should have felt
complete and happy, but at the time I was miserable. I was alone again.
A couple weeks later I saw Brody and Victoria in the park walking together. I
decided I was going to give it a chance to try and save her. With all my courage I walked
up to them and told her that she was making a mistake. I told her, I insisted, I begged that
she come with me. She shook her head, her bruised arm reached out to Brody’s and they
began to walk away. There was a pile of leaves approaching them; with every step they
took together they broke apart the puzzle of leaves. The beautiful assortment, the leaves
fitting so perfectly together, were disrupted and torn apart by Brody and Victoria. As
they walked away I felt a sense of completeness fill my body; I looked up and I could see
the pile of leaves fitting so perfectly together again.
My puzzle isn’t finish. Maybe I can’t find the right pieces because I am focusing
on the wrong ones; you can’t force the pieces in the wrong spot.
Joe Egger
The Family Man
No matter what we think or do, we are not invincible. This was a lesson that Bill
Smith learned the hard way. Bill was living the perfect life with a loving family, a
successful business, and a large house in a nice neighborhood. Every man’s dream was
reality for Bill Smith, at least, that’s what he thought. One event after another led Bill and
his family down the dark path of demise. A domino effect leading to certain destruction
was triggered out of nowhere. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this!” Bill repeatedly
said to himself getting increasingly frustrated with the path his life was taking. “I have
done everything right! Why me?” His voice echoed through the long corridors. The days
that used to soar by with joy and laughs now seemed to crawl by like chores filled with
nothing but despair and more bad news. Bill thought that his life could not get any worse.
He believed he had finally hit rock bottom, but then the phone rang…
*
Bill can easily be described as a family man. Family is his first priority in life, and
it is all he cares about. He became happily married the love of his life, Mary, just after
they both graduated from college. Almost immediately he found a job as a landscaper for
Green Meadows Landscaping and was able to buy a small house and support his wife.
Over the years through hard work and determination Bill rose through the corporate
ladder of the company until he became the president. A dream come true. The money,
success, and happiness seemed to come from everywhere and from everyone he met. Mr.
Smith was not only good with his hands, but he was also good with his words. The
unique sense of humor and social skills that Bill possessed not only helped him become
successful quickly in life, but also aided him in creating new friends and connections. It
didn’t take any effort on Bill’s part to become the life of any party. He could be mature
and professional when he needed to be, but when having a good time he could act like a
child in a grown man’s body. Whether it was riding a unicycle, telling hilarious jokes, or
taking friends and family for rides on his motorcycle he always knew how to have a good
time.
The growth of his success was directly proportional to the growth of his house,
his family, and his happiness. Bill and Mary had three children within four years of their
beautiful marriage. Their family was growing almost as quickly as Bill’s salary; the small
house Bill bought ten years prior was no longer a suitable home for his developing
family. The house, however, was located very close to his children’s school and favorite
playground, and since family came first moving was not an option. Instead, Bill decided
to expand. What was once a small cozy house became a mansion that cast shadows on all
of the smaller houses around him. A single hallway leading to a bathroom and a bedroom
became a labyrinth of corridors leading to various playrooms, bathrooms, bedrooms, and
countless other needless rooms. A small dining room table that could barely seat five
people was replaced with an extensive table that was used for Thanksgiving and other
large, family celebrations.
Life was good for the Smith family, but Bill wanted it to be better because he
knew his family deserved it; he began to work harder and harder in order to become
wealthier and wealthier. The money that came in was used to increase the comfort of his
family. “As long as my family is comfortable, I’m comfortable,” Bill thought to himself.
Whether he used the money to new toys for his kids, bigger televisions for every room in
the house, or clothes for his wife, he didn’t care.
*
The first destructive domino fell when Bill woke up one sunny Saturday morning
and walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and find out what the day
would have in store for him. Peering down at the calendar his heart dropped. Written in
the small square was “10th Anniversary” circled by a sloppy heart. He had completely
forgotten. He knew that if he did not do anything special for his wife she would be
disappointed and that’s the last thing he wanted his wife to feel. The thought of a
disappointed wife sickened him, so he had to think quickly. He threw on some clothes
and exited the house as quickly as he could without waking his wife. He drove into town
to the local liquor store where he bought two bottles of champagne, one bottle of red
wine, and one bottle of white wine. He knew his wife liked all three so he didn’t risk
choosing between them. Next he ran across the street to the best restaurant in town to get
reservations for 8 o’clock that night. The manager informed Bill that the restaurant was
booked so he made room for himself by slipping the manager a one hundred dollar bill.
Everything was set for the perfect evening.
Bill arrived home to his wife making breakfast; he walked up behind her slipping
her a kiss on the cheek and wishing her a happy anniversary. “The way you ran off this
morning I would have thought you had forgotten,” his wife said to him jokingly. He
passed this off with a frustrated, fake laugh. The thought of disappointment still lingered
in his brain. When he told the news of how he got them reservations for that night Mary
jumped with excitement. Not only was the restaurant the best, it was her favorite. She
immediately picked up the phone and arranged a babysitter.
The evening was nothing short of perfect for the two lovers. Each was reminded
of how it used to be when they first married. Their alone time together was full of holding
hands, laughing, and small but meaningful kisses, the perfect recipe for an amazing night.
After dinner the couple took a midnight walk through the city stopping to sit on a bench
in their favorite park to remind each other how much love they shared. “Remember when
we first came here together?” Bill asked.
“How could I forget?” replied Mary dreamily, “It was when you proposed to me!”
Bill just responded with a smile; he was too happy to even speak. Sitting there
with the love of his life staring at the stars through the trees of Green Meadows Park was
enough for him. It was getting late. Before leaving Bill leaned over to give his wife one
more love-filled hug, but accidentally brushed against her chest. Immediately, Mary
turned her head and brushed her hair behind her ear. She let out a disappointed sigh.
What he felt made his heart sink into a dark hole. Being a well- educated man, Bill knew
that the bump he felt could only mean one thing, breast cancer. “I’m sorry,” she muttered
under her breath.
*
After sitting in the ER for over 3 hours, the doctor confirmed the horrible truth. “I
am extremely sorry Mr. Smith but the bump on your wife’s chest has checked out to be a
malignant tumor,” the doctor said slowly.
“Sorry? Is that all you have to say?” Bill said angrily. There was such a dramatic
change of events that he could not bear the weight of the truth. The perfect evening
immediately turned to shit.
The doctor understood why Bill was so upset so once again he spoke calmly,
“We’re going to start your wife with chemotherapy as soon as possible Mr. Smith. The
tests show that the cancer has spread throughout your wife’s body, so we must take action
quickly.”
“How about you start right now!” Bill demanded, “This is my wife we’re talking
about!”
“Like I said Mr. Smith we are going to begin the procedures as soon as possible,
maybe even as soon as tomorrow. Is this the first time you felt the bump on your wife’s
chest because tests show that it must have been there for weeks.”
“Yes. This was the first time. Why wouldn’t she tell me if she knew! So much for
our fucking trust!” screamed Bill. He was exhausted by the burden of the truth. He
couldn’t handle it. Why couldn’t life stay perfect?
“Your wife is going to stay in our care tonight, Mr. Smith. You should go home
and get some rest.” The doctor turned and exited through the bulky, gray doors of the ER.
Bill, suddenly overwhelmed by loneliness, got up and walked toward the car.
Although Bill was driving farther and farther away from the hospital, the despair
trailed him closely. All he could think about was his wife, his changing life, and how he
wished he had discovered the cancer sooner, but it was hard to find alone time for his
wife and himself because of the three kids. Before she was in his arms 24/7 but now they
barely had time to cuddle for five minutes a day. “If only I held her more often,” he
thought to himself, “then maybe I would have felt the cancer sooner.” Bill’s mind was so
frantic that he began to blame the cancer on his kids, but then he quickly regained his
sense of reality. “I just need some rest,” he thought to himself.
The doors of the house seemed reluctant to open as if they knew something was
wrong. Bill had never spent a night in the huge house without Mary, and this night the
house seemed bigger and emptier than normal. He couldn’t bare being alone so he
crawled in bed beside his youngest son and went to sleep.
*
The next few months were a whirlwind, no, a tornado of disaster. The
chemotherapy did not seem to be working as well as should have. The dosages and
appointments for the therapy began to become more and more frequent, and this meant
soaring medical bills. Bill, thinking his family was invincible, never purchased a decent
medical plan, which he now regretted. He struggled to keep up with the constant piles of
bills that came in the mail. He rarely got to work because he was stuck watching the three
young children while his wife was away getting treatments, and when he was at work his
mind was left behind. He could not concentrate. The only thing on his mind was Mary.
Within 6 months of his wife’s diagnosis, Bill lost his job.
Money, which was once the greatest ally of the Smith family, became its greatest
enemy. Bill could not find work no matter how hard he tried, which wasn’t very hard
because he did not feel like working anymore. He became lazier and lazier as the days
dragged on, and soon the bills began to build up even more. The mansion-like house that
cast a shadow on all houses around it now cast a shadow on the future of the Smith
family. The perfect life and the perfect house began to crumble under the weight of the
bills and debt that refused to stop piling up. Bill could no longer deal with the crushing
feeling he got whenever he was in the prison of a house. He relied on his ’95 Harley
Davidson Fat Boy for relief. Although extremely old and warn down from use it always
seemed to start up when he wanted it to, therefore, the engine of the ancient cycle could
be heard roaring through the neighborhood almost everyday. As long as he was out of
that house Bill Smith could breathe.
The motorcycle escape was good, but not good enough. He needed permanent
relief from his troubles. Mary was only home one night a week now due to the constant
treatments and therapies that she must undergo. Not only was the towering collection of
bills enough to squeeze the hope out of Bill, but now he must take care of his children
with no help at all. He felt abandoned, a feeling he never felt before; this new emotion
was like an unchartered continent, frightening and unwelcoming. He thought that his life
had now officially hit rock bottom. His mansion of pride, love, and family was
demolished and resurrected in its place was this prison of debt, responsibility, and
loneliness. He sat in his favorite chair muttering phrases of frustration under his breath.
His voice got higher and higher until he was eventually screaming but this did no good.
His voice echoed through the house until it became trapped and lost in the winding
corridors just as he was. Bill laid his head in his shaking hands just as the phone began to
ring. He ignored it. The intense, annoying ringing buzzed through the house once more;
he wanted it to get lost just as his voice did, but it kept ringing. After a long deep breath,
Bill walked toward the irritating ring.
“Hello,” Bill asked with a sigh.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith. This is Dr. Robert from the hospital and I’m afraid
that I have bad news.” The doctor waited for some sort of reaction or reply, but got none.
He continued, “Your wife’s cancer is spreading quicker than we expected and the
chemotherapy seems to be useless against it. We will need to transfer her to a hospital in
Florida.” Once again he waited for a reply, but was only disappointed with silence. “Mr.
Smith?” the doctor asked not expecting an answer.
“I’m here,” Bill replied slowly. This was a lie. He was not really there. His body
and his mind were in two completely different places. His body was imprisoned in his
house while his mind wandered freely about the past and how his perfect life has gone
completely downhill. He couldn’t take it.
“Once again I am really sorr...” Bill slammed the phone back on the wall before
the doctor could finish his sentence. He was sick of hearing nothing but sorry. He didn’t
believe them. How could they be sorry? If they were sorry then they would have done
more for his wife. They would have cured her and returned his life back to normalcy. Bill
wished they were truly sorry. There was nothing left to do but run, but how could he
leave behind his family? He tried to convince himself to leave; he wanted to be selfish for
once in his life. Bill had already practically isolated himself from his children, but he still
loved them immensely. Mary abandoned him, left him alone with nothing but the kids
and stress. However, none of these thoughts convinced him that selfishness was the right
path to go down. He wanted someone or something to decide for him. Suddenly, an idea
struck him.
The Harley Fat Boy motorcycle. It was used as escape before so why not now,
and it always started when he wanted it to. Bill then remembered that the engine had
recently turned faulty and only started when he got lucky. This gave him another idea. He
decided that if the motorcycle started he would ride away, leaving his problems behind
forever, but if it did not he must deal with the cards that life had dealt him. “Tomorrow
will be the day,” he thought as he sat down in his chair and closed his eyes.
*
The following day he got up extra early to clean up the escape bike. Bill filled it
with gas, made the bike’s metal parts sparkle, and finally scrubbed the engine clean of all
its rust. He hoped that this would make the bike work, but he convinced himself that he
was being fair and not increasing his chances of escape. He worked for hours scrubbing
every inch of the motorcycle making it look better and hopefully making it run better.
The bike always worked when he wanted it to. Bill left the garage to let the bike air dry
for an hour or so.
It was the longest hour of his life. Each minute seemed like days. He avoided his
kids as much as possible, just as he had since the night his wife was diagnosed. He feared
that the sight of his children would change the results of the bike’s decision. It always
started when he wanted it to.
The dusty leather outfit fit snug to Bill’s body. His lack of activity had caused him
to put on a little weight. He placed the helmet on his head and strapped up his boots. He
was ready to ride away and leave his problems behind; now all that was left was to turn
the key and start up the bike. Bill ran quickly past his children’s rooms, glad to see them
distracted by their cartoons. They didn’t notice him. He tiptoed down the steps and
toward the garage trying to be silent. The garage door seemed heavier now then it did
earlier. He wanted to jump on his bike and ride, but instead he sat down carefully trying
not to damage the old motorcycle. He slid the key into the ignition. “Soon,” he said,
“Soon this will be all over.” He turned the key and braced himself for the roar of the
engine. The motorcycle reacted immediately to the turn of the key. The engine let out two
quick clicking noises then died. All hope of escape was lost in an instant. Bill was left
sitting on the bike in the garage with nothing but silence.
Richard Forbes
May 10, 2010
The Writer
I sat on top of a hill. High grasses rustled in the little gusts of wind. It was
nearing dusk. The sky was completely clear--greyish near the horizon, graduating to a
pellucid blue directly above me. I lay back and inspected it. Upon first glance, the sky
had looked empty, but now I could see tiny airplanes sluggishly flying across the vast
dome, their bodies glinting white in the failing light. The hill cast a massive shadow
across the fields below. A little creek wound its way through a strip of trees, covered
completely in the clear gloom of sunlessness. My fingers were chilled by the cool air, as
I struggled to write without purpose. I could hear birdsong emanating from nearby
bushes, and several birds flitted through the air above me. Their songs burbled out in
random patterns, sometimes keening, sometimes murmured. Cows gently mooed in the
distance. Tiny yellow flowers lay nestled in the higher grasses. The breezes kept the
bugs away. I was beset by aromas-grass, honeysuckle, manure, and fresh air. Fresh air
smells like cold water tastes- refreshingly nothing.
The sunset began, accompanied by avian crooning and swishing greenery. The
trees took on a golden hue, and the sunlight behind me glowed. The soil beneath me sat
cool and packed. Shadows overtook me. A small white seed floated before me. The
horizon turned red. A tiny insect crawled along my leg. I shivered in the dropping
temperature. I wanted to stay out past the sunset, through the gloaming and into night.
Maybe this time I’d find inspiration. The cold in my fingers argued with my inclination
to linger. Most of the countryside was now in shadow. The varied greens of grasses and
trees deepened in the twilight. The grass denied description- it was all different. Thick
green shoots topped by grey-green seeds, thin green topped by lavender seeds, short
clovers, broad-leaved plants. The horizon was now maroon. A rabbit hopped along the
path. Crepuscular creatures emerged.
I stood, trying to see the sunset, but I could make out only golden light. The
horizon was deepening into deep blue- like ocean water. My hands were also blue. The
pen shook in my faltering fingers, and I put away my pad and pen- the pad empty, the pen
full. Nothing. The cold was pervading my light clothes, and I questioned my resolve to
stay. The sunset was cooling into orange. I rationalized the bitterness: surely night could
not be too far off. The greyblue horizon suffused through the rest of the sky. The wind
had fallen, and insects loomed around my head. I fought off the urge to swat them,
though their lives seemed largely meaningless and useless. A rabbit silflayed towards
me. I held still as our eyes met, and he left the path, too experienced to risk contact. The
sunset was now dark red, and the sky was uniformly dark blue. My shivers into
numbness. Colors became muted, and trees were silhouetted against the dying sun, each
leaf standing out in dramatic contrast. An insect invaded my nose. I sneezed. The cool
air seemed unwelcoming and I took the hint. Twilight was ending. I allowed myself to
leave.
The walk back was quiet. My footfalls were cushioned selflessly by the grass,
which sprang back into shape after I was gone. I crossed a creek, its water babbling and
burbling to itself contentedly. The air closer to the water, in this little dell, was cooler
still, but I walked along, my hurried breathing the only hint of my inner chill. I climbed
up the other side of the dell, and entered another field. After following the darkening
path, I came upon the gravel road, which would lead me back. I trotted along it, and
night truly fell, an inaudible whump. Stars emerged from the dark blue. My vigil hill sat
peaceably behind me, the last glimmer of red and orange peaking out from above him.
The gravel beneath me crisped under my weight. I passed houses, some lit, some not.
Dogs barked from some. Old farmhouses materialized, and I could hear cattle shifting in
the dark, their bells softly clinking. Quiet lowing followed my intrusion, as they
reproached me. Pinpricks lit up in the sky, ancient light doddering down. I looked up,
and through the years. The stars I was seeing now might have been dead for centuries. It
was like looking into a nursing home combined with a cemetery- life and death
intermingled. Night had fallen, and my irreverence had woken. A tiny light beckoned
me back, and I closed in on the home of my friend. He was kindly keeping me as I
sought my muse. I pushed the door open, and entered the homely cottage. His dog
greeted me happily, and he looked up from the couch, his nose unburying itself from a
book.
“About time you got back,” he mumbled. “I’ve been sitting here hungry, waiting
for you.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“Nonsense. I’m glad you’re not dead or something. I didn’t feel like trying to
find you.”
We were old friends. I’d known him back in college, and while he’d returned to
England and settled down, I’d taken my writing degree and aimlessly traipsed about the
world. Somewhere along the way, I’d scrawled out a book, and it’d appealed to enough
people that I was trying to write another. It wasn’t easy. The first book had come out of
nowhere. I didn’t know where, and unfortunately, I couldn’t find it again. My
inspiration seemed gone. I’m hesitant to personify inspiration as a muse, but only a
woman could be so flighty. I couldn’t find a story I could devote myself to. I’d write
ten, twenty pages, and lose interest. Characters committed suicide in the fresh ink. I
wanted to write up to my old standards, but everything eluded me- even shoddy work. I
had a dog-eared copy of my book, and I’d page through it, looking at what was proving
itself to be a fluke. I loved my book. I was wholly content with it- every sentence, every
word, every character. Over the months, I’d tried to find my problem, but again, like a
woman, my muse defied logic. I’d read other books that had inspired me, I talked to
friends, family, colleagues, even my publisher (who told me he wanted another book and
then lost interest). I’d done all the fuckery I could think of, and it wasn’t enough. Fuck
it, I’d thought. I thought of my old friend who’d moved out to England, got an invitation
to visit, and here I was.
“What do you want to eat? I’ve got some pasta?”
“Sure, that sounds great. Anything warm, it’s goddamn cold out there.” My
fingers were defrosting as we spoke.
“Shouldn’t have stayed out there so long then. Idiot…” His mockery mitigated
by a smile. “What do you think of the place?”
“It’s beautiful. I just sat in a field for hours, and feel better than I have in a long
time.”
“That’s why you’re here. Stop thinking about the book.” He noticed my notepad
and pen. “Though it looks like that’s not going to happen.”
“I know, I know. I was just sitting there, appraising life, being observant. Keeps
me in practice.”
“Sit down.” He handed me hot chocolate. “Pasta will be ready in a little.”
We ate, reminisced, laughed, and settled down afterward near the fire. He was
right. About everything. I sat in his warm chair, with a full belly- content. Our
conversation died peacefully, and we sat in a comfortable silence. His dog lay by his
feet, the fire crackled, and I envied his peaceful existence, until I remembered he was
selflessly sharing it with me. He rose, said goodnight, and wandered off to bed. I sat
there for a while, thinking. The only tactic left unturned was apathy. Maybe I could
sneak up on my muse… or she might even come to me. If she didn’t, I’d figure
something out. A course of action decided upon, I struggled up, my body loathe to leave
the fire. When I entered my room, I moved the drapes aside, and peered out the window.
Rolling hills topped with trees rose against the dark sky. I lay down, and fell asleep to
the sound of the muffled wind brushing against the house.
I awoke to morning sun. The light shone straight through my window like a
heavenly suggestion to rise. I’m an atheist, so I went back to sleep. After dozing for a
time, I got up, and headed downstairs. Chase had left me a note “Unlike you, I have to
go to work. I’ll be home at 7. You can use my bike if you like.” I went through his
refrigerator, found some flour, milk and eggs, and made pancakes. When I had a
respectable heap, I sat out on the porch, read the paper, and basked in the sun. The world
was still muddling along without me, so I put aside the paper, finished up my pancakes,
and got dressed. I decided to take the bicycle out, and get to know the area a little better.
I’d arrived two days before, but I’d only wandered around on foot, and a bicycle would
give me a much wider range. I also knew there was a town somewhere, so I set out to
find it.
After about an hour of struggling up and coasting down hills, I found a sign
pointing towards “Cockermouth”. I slowly rode along the road, bumping over the worn
dirt road. The bicycle was old, but functioned, and the surrounding countryside spread
out around me. Cows and sheep roamed the open hills, and trees lined the road and
delineated the property lines. Various animal noises and smells reached me, and I
enjoyed the bucolic setting. My mind drifted… country setting… book idea?… shut the
fuck up Noah. I crossed a river on a small wooden bridge. A church steeple rose out of
the trees in the distance. I climbed up the last rise, and before me was the town of
Cockermouth.
It was attractive and understated- a country town. I rode along the streets, and
saw a bakery. I’ve never been able to resist such leavened loveliness, and the smells of
the area stood as a testament to something positive. I bought some good-looking bread,
and bought a sausage sandwich to balance out my previous exertions. After I fought
clear my way out of the bakery, hemorrhaging money, I ambled about the town, wheeling
the bicycle beside me. I felt comfortable, accompanied by the few other people out and
about on a Monday morning. I didn’t see any tourists, and it seemed as if this town had
managed to avoid the sought-after scourge. A beautiful old church sat in the center of
town, surrounded by little shops and the occasional pub.
I spent about two hours in the town, between eating and meandering, and then I
decided to move on. I purchased a small map of the area and found the house on the
map. Then I rode off, choosing roads at whim. When I grew hungry, I ate bread, when I
grew tired, I sat in a meadow. Life was simplifying before me. Towards the afternoon, a
typical English mist rolled in, and the day cooled off. Grey clouds covered the sky.
Greens became vibrant and alive. The moist air invigorated me, and I happily cycled
through the mist. Water droplets hung in the air and clung to my clothing. After
thoroughly confusing myself, I checked the map and returned home. The thrill of beauty
begged for a release, but without my muse, I found myself succumbing to indolencenapping in an armchair.
“Oi! Wake up! Lazy bastard…” Chase was back.
“I’m up, I’m up.” I sat up quickly. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“Well, I’m home. I was thinking we could go out to the pub tonight? There’s a
game on, and you ought to get out and meet the locals a bit. They’re friendly enough.”
“Yeah, that sounds great. When do you want to leave?”
“I’ll just go change and then we can go.”
Chase was right. The pub was a welcome substitute from my daily solitude. And
I’d always liked rugby, even if I wasn’t as fanatical about it as some of these brutes.
Chase introduced me to his friends, and we sat down and had a conversation over some
beers. They wanted to know why I was in England, so I just said I was visiting Chase. I
didn’t feel like explaining. I was already losing sight of my literary impotence, and there
was no need to reawaken that demon. Thought: Viagra for authors. “Get it up when you
need it” --it’d sell like hotcakes, or illicit drugs.
I enjoyed watching the riotous reactions of the crowd. Chase noticed me peoplewatching.
“When the All Blacks beat England in the World Cup last year, people were
smashing pints and throwing them through windows. It got ugly.”
I laughed appreciatively, but I could see it happening- gory hands bleeding onto
the ground, glasses flying, bartender in the middle of the fray, throwing his glasses with
the rest. Country of maniacs. Then I thought about American fans, and realized we
weren’t much better. After a while, I lost interest, and wandered out of the pub for a little
fresh air. It was night, and clear and cool. I walked a big circle around the town, and
returned in time to watch England finish up the match with a beautiful try. The fans went
home happy, and I stayed intact. Chase was drunk, so I drove home, but it was good that
it was late, because I kept veering off to the right side of the road. Fucking English and
the left side of the road.
Time blurred. I spent my days traipsing around the countryside. Life was good.
I didn’t forgot about my writing, but its urgency receded. We went out to the pub, and I
became an accepted visitor if not a local. I met a girl named Ava. I made friends. I
didn’t want to become a burden on Chase, so I bought a used motorcycle from an old
farmer. I’d ride about, wearing an old leather jacket, eyes tearing up. I was happy.
Nights I’d go on dates with Ava. I stopped carrying a notepad and pen about. I left my
book at home. I paid for my own expenses, and thanked Chase until I realized the
constant thanks were far more annoying than my presence. One night I got back from a
date. Things were going well with Ava, and I walked in with a smile. Chase was sitting
in his customary chair by the fire. He looked at me when I walked in.
“You know, this book isn’t half bad.” He gestured towards my book, which lay in
his lap.
I was simultaneously annoyed and gratified. “Thanks,” I said shortly.
“No really. I like it. I know you’re happy doing nothing. And I’m glad you’re
happy. But you’ve got to work sometime. Just don’t forget about that part of your life.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you.” He trailed off.
“No, you’re right. Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve been taking advantage of you and your
generosity.”
“Dammit Noah. That’s not what I mean. You need to write. I know you.
You’ve got so many thoughts flitting about in your head- you’ve got to write some down.
You can stay here as long as you need. It’s good to have another person around. Think
about what I said. I’m going to bed.” He stood up, quickly, embarrassed by his outburst,
and walked off to bed with my book in his hand.
I sat up late that night, thinking about it. The next morning, I found my book on
his dresser. He’d finished it. I sat down on the porch, and began reading my own book
cover to cover. Every word. I finished the next day, around midday. I’d not slept much
the night before, and I was tired. I rummaged through my things, found my pen and
paper, and walked along the road. After a time, I found the path, and walked along,
through the dell, up the hill, back to my spot. I scrawled out the first sentence- “I sat on
top of a hill.”
Dan Hampton
Period 5
The words came out of her mouth and echoed around by head as if she had
bellowed them at me from the top of the Grand Canyon. I stood, frozen in place, terrified
to move. A knot in my stomach had emerged within nanoseconds of her two word
speech. Sweat beads had formed and surfaced at the top of my brow and all over my
forehead- I could feel my heart begin to pound in my chest. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh
shit... were the only words I could think of.
Some people handle stress really badly. I would know; I live with a family of
overworked, overly stressed parents. It seems like every day they come home and find
something to bitch, whine or moan about and can never be happy. Even when we go on
vacation, they both bring their laptops to answer emails and are ready at a moment’s
notice in case a crisis emerges at work and they have to be the company’s impromptu
MacGyver. I, on the other hand, handle stress very well. When my baseball team gets
into a jam, and they need someone to bail them out of an inning, they call on me because
I don’t crack under pressure. I can handle the stress. But nothing can prepare you for
those two words that will alter your life forever. No amount of stressful conditions at
work; no matter how many jams you get your team out of; nothing- absolutely nothing.
We stood there for what felt like an eternity. She- staring intently into my eyes
waiting for me to say or do something, but I couldn’t. A chill travelled down my spine.
It pricked the hairs on the back of my neck up, and sent a wave of goose bumps down my
arms and legs. I broke the strained eye contact first. Looking down at the white, shiny
tiles of her bathroom floor, I swallowed, and choked out the word “Oh.”
Visions of college flashed through my head. All my hopes and dreams were
crashing and burning before my eyes. I could see it now- my father would come home,
and give me that trademark look of disgust and angst. “How could you? What the fuck
were you thinking Dan? How many times have your mom and I talked to you about this?
Huh? How many times?” My mother, usually the one to stick up for me against the wrath
of my father’s deep, penetrating words, just sits there, tongue-in-cheek, in disbelief of my
carelessness.
It’s funny really, the raw power two words can have over an eighteen year olds’
life. Something usually celebrated by people of ages past, today- but the single most
horrifying sentence a high school student can hear. There are words that can hurt you
emotionally, and then there are words that can destroy you, and obliterate all your goals
you’ve ever had in one foul swoop.
I looked up at her to see if she was still waiting for more of a response than “oh.”
“I was hoping you would say… I don’t know… something… something
different…” Her words trailed off, lost in the abyss that was fast becoming my life.
“What am I supposed to say?” I asked sarcastically, but honestly- I really had no
idea what to say. I kept hearing them- those two godforsaken words- “I’m pregnant.”
She was visibly upset. Her nails, once long and coated scarlet, now appeared
broken and flaked from her continued fidgeting and biting. Her eyes, once lively and
passionate, were red from the tears she had obviously spilled- deep, dark, bags loomed
under her eyes and were made ever so glaring by the paleness of her skin.
I had always thought Jenn was beautiful. Her long, curly hair bounced around
and swayed side to side as she walked. Her forwardness, which had scared away so
many guys before me, ignited a spark between us and enthralled me. She was
independent, especially for a high schooler. She didn’t succumb to the excess drama of
so-called “girl-world,” the trivial and vengeful life of most high school teenage girls. No.
She was different. Soft-spoken to those she doesn’t know well, but fiery and feisty to
those she grew close to. She was a reader. Loved Redwall as a child, and had read
everything teachers threw at her. This perplexed me, seeing as I hated the idea of
spending any amount of time huddled over some tedious and time-consuming book, but
for some reason I loved this about her. She was against the grain. Smart, yet stunningly
beautiful. Possessive, but not obsessive. She was perfect. The catch of the ocean- and
we were madly in love.
I migrated to the toilet, put down the porcelain seat, and sighed. Raising my eyes
to meet hers, I saw one, lonely, hopeless tear make a path from her eye, down to her
cheek, until finally it gave way to gravity and fell silently to the floor. I knew I should
console her. That would be the right thing to do here. “That would be the man thing to
do” I could almost hear my father preach. But I couldn’t… It was like all the energy,
passion, and love I had died with the news that I conceived a child.
“Ok,” I stalled, “Well we do have options here. We can keep the baby-raise it as
our child, and hope we can make enough money to sup-“
“I’m not ready” she interjected. “I… I can’t… Dan, I-I just can’t.” Caught off
guard with her sudden proclamation I turned just in time to see her mother walking into
her room. Burying her eyes in her hands she quietly walked out of the bathroom and
through her bedroom and out to the kitchen. Still numb from the previous news, I nearly
missed the unmistakable malice on Mrs. Hughes’ face. I snuck by her. She can wait for
the time-being.
A few months into dating, Jenn and I lightly discussed our political views and
what we’d do if ridiculous situations that would never happen happened. One of the
topics we discussed was abortion. I asked her how she felt about it, hoping she shared
my pro-life stance against abortion. “I believe it’s my body and I have the right to do
with it what I wish” she replied in her innocent, affable way that made me smile and
made my fingers cold from the nervousness of trying to impress her. At the time I did
anything to impress her, so I chose not to start an argument that wouldn’t sway either of
us anyways. I simply laughed it off and said “Typical high school girl, well I am pro-life
so there!” I halfheartedly (almost in a kidding tone) responded. The only problem with
this is that I wasn’t kidding. I wasn’t being sarcastic or disagreeing with her just to spite
her or act charming. I was serious. And I meant every word.
We didn’t talk for two days after “the incident.” I wasn’t even sure she wanted to
speak to me. At school we passed each other exchanging passing glances, both of either
lost in aimless conversation with friends or in too much of a hurry to get to our next class
to stop and say hi. I wasn’t too upset by it either. Life was moving in slow motion. I
couldn’t focus on any classes. Nothing my teachers said to me seemed important. I just
sat there, stared off into space or put on my headphones, put my head down, and listened
to Nirvana or Pink Floyd. Homework just stayed piling up into the garbage can that had
become my backpack.
Two days later I got a phone call from her saying she wanted to see me in person.
I agreed and asked if she was ok. “Just meet me in fifteen minutes at my house.”
She used this tone and these kinds of cold, discouraging words only once with me
before in our two year history together. It was last Thanksgiving when I made the
mistake of telling one of her friends I thought she was attractive. Lauren had asked me
out of the blue whether she was hot or not. “Oh yeah,” I answered with a confident
smile, “I liked you all of freshman year, you’re really hot.” Well it turned out that this
got back to Jenn, and her wrath was unleashed upon me. I stood no chance. “You told
her she was HOT? AND THAT YOU LIKED HER ALL OF FRESHMAN YEAR??”
proceeded by a punch straight to my sternum and another jab to my gut leaving a pair
searing welts on my chest and stomach. A couple days later she called me and simply
declared “Meet in town. Noon. Don’t be late.” We made up, but I never flirted with
Lauren again.
The mile uphill walk to her house was the strangest feeling I’d ever had. I
wanted to save face, if only to myself, so I walked up with a swagger so that everyone
who drove by would think I was a badass. I put on an intense, stern look that, to me,
made me look tough. I blasted Hollywood Undead on my iPod and zoned out. Songs
filled with anger, rebellion, and anarchy banged around in my head.
As I walked the last hundred yards to her house I thought about our situation. I
knew it was coming. She was raised very liberal, and I know if we had the money it
would be the obvious choice for her. Good thing I had the money from my job working
at the local Burger King because she didn’t work. I knew if she wanted an abortion, she
would ask me for the money before anyone else. But I won’t do it. I couldn’t do it. And
I didn’t know how people could do it. Kill a child because it would make their life
easier. The thought sickened me. I rang the doorbell. “Here we go.”
Her mom answered the door.
“Jenn’s upstairs” was all she uttered. Carefully maneuvering my way around her
I made my way up the wooden staircase. There was a portrait of her family on the wall
with Jenn, her parents, and her two sisters. I looked at it for a second. They gazed out of
the portrait with aimless smiles. All of them. The funny thing was, they hated each other
in real life. That family was always fighting,n be it over time in the bathroom or which
side of the couch they wanted to sit on. But they all looked happy here.
Jenn’s mom was young. Thirty-eight years old with an eighteen year old
daughter. This meant that at age twenty she had to have had Jenn. Because she got
pregnant so young she was forced to give up college and become a mom. I admired her
though. Instead of taking the easy way out and getting an abortion she quit school,
worked two full time jobs, and kept Jenn. Anyone could tell she was unhappy though.
When she wasn’t working, she was sleeping. After age ten, the girls basically raised
themselves, guided by Jenn.
After thinking over the situation, I wondered why Jenn is so pro-choice. I mean,
she is the perfect example of why you can’t abort babies. She is highly intelligent,
driven, focused, and responsible; everything a parent wants their child to be. “What if
you’re killing the next Einstein or Jesus?” someone said to me once. “How could you live
with yourself?”
She was sitting on her bed cross-legged with a pillow in her lap. Rays of scarlet
red light from the curtain illuminated the room and washed over her face. The room had
clearly been thoroughly cleaned recently as vacuum tracks made long vertical patterns on
the carpet and her dresser which usually had random trinkets, pens, makeup, and jewelry;
were all neatly put away.
“Hi…” she broke the awkward silence.
“Hey…” I answered back shifting my eyes away from her toward the stuffed
elephant she had perched on her tiny hammock. I made my way across the room,
avoiding eye contact with her, and picked up one of her baby dolls the red light dancing
across its forehead.
“So…I was talking with my Uncle, and I think he gave me smart advice…”
Oh god. Here it comes.
“You know I won’t do it Jenn. You know I won’t kill my own fucking child!” I
shouted at her.
She looked at me sadly, got up and hugged me. A bit caught off guard, I
stumbled and managed a weak hug back. Yes! I thought to myself. I breathed a sigh of
relief. Oh thank God… she isn’t going to do it. She’s willing to go through with the
baby.
Then, I heard a soft whimper. I looked down and saw she was sobbing. “Don’t
worry. We’re gonna make it through this.” I tried comforting her. “We’re gonna be all
right.”
“No!” she choked out
“Yes! Yes we will. Trust me. I have it all figured out. We’ll need help form our
parents to start,-you know- money, a place to stay for awhile-”
“No” she responded this time much more forcefully.
“Yes! I can get a Job-”
“NO!” she screamed pulling away. “You’re not hearing me! WE CAN’T!”
“Why not?” I asked bewildered. “It’s my child too! You can’t keep it away from
me!”
“THERE IS NO MORE CHILD, DAN!!” she screamed at me.
I stood there dumbfounded, searching for the right words to say, but all that came
out was “You- what?” The tears were freely flowing from her eyes now. The once
gorgeous, free-spirited, fun-loving girl I knew was now keeled over on the floor, crying
hysterically.
Aghast, I took a step back. “You- you aborted it?” I whispered softly.
“I’m sorry! Dan, I’m so sorry!”
I sat down on the bed, mouth open, tears welling up. “And you didn’t tell me?”
She didn’t answer- just curled up into a ball right there on the floor and wept.
I couldn’t stand to look at her anymore. I got up, went into the bathroom, and
hunched over the sink, looking at my reflection in the mirror and breathing heavily.
Years went by. After that day we never spoke another word to each other. I
dated a couple more flings but never seriously. It felt as if she had taken a part of me that
day along with the baby. Not a day went by when I didn’t think about her and the awful
decision I wasn’t part of.
One autumn day, I found myself on a park bench, under orange leaves ready to
fall off the trees and die. One of my best friends told me I should write to get my mind
off things.
“Write a short story,” he said. “About something that defines you.”
I picked up my pen and thought about Jenn. The words came out of her mouth
and echoed around by head…
Morgan Hecker
Without You
She had liked him for years, but was always watching, keeping her feelings to
herself. She watched him walk away once, literally; he moved to the opposite side of the
country. At the time she didn’t know he would be coming back, but that didn’t matter.
She heard stories about him and wondered how he was doing. Sometimes they would talk
through Facebook, but not enough to consider themselves close friends. After elementary
school they had gone separate ways, finding new people to hang out with. Occasionally,
they would say hi to each other in the halls or reminisce on old events from elementary
school. They weren’t really friends in middle school ,yet the same feeling returned and
she felt as she did years before. Now, unsure if she would ever see him again, she began
to wonder what life would be like without him.
Her birthday was approaching fast. The celebration, that is. Today was the day of
the big one-eight. Even though her parents always treated her as an adult, she was finally,
legally, an adult. Lainy had been calling her dad nonstop since she got home from
practice at 7:30. Her mom became fed up with her repeatedly asking where he was, so
she sarcastically suggested that Lainy just wait by the door. That’s exactly what she did.
Her phone was still buzzing with texts from her friends wishing her happy birthday, so at
first she didn’t realize what the bright lights were that she was seeing. Lainy was on the
house phone talking to her grandmother, who she thought was asking way too many
questions. She just wanted to see what her parents had decided to surprise her with this
year. As she saw her father’s car approaching the house, she began to grin. He was finally
home, which meant it was time to open her gifts. From inside she watched through the
glass as her dad stepped out of his car and walked to the door through the storm. As the
lighting cracked, a shadow flashed and her smile slowly faded as she realized what had
just happened. She froze. A low moan escaped her throat, and somehow she managed to
get her mother’s attention.
They’re constantly surrounded by each other. In almost every class they see each
other. And if not in class, then in the halls or at lunch. To her, he is everywhere. Just the
sight of him makes her happy. The way he holds himself, the way he walks, the way he
talks. His face lights up as he smiles across the room to her. She smiles back and
wonders how he possibly could have feelings for someone else. Some of the
conversations are unbearable to her, yet she continues to replay them in her mind. For
Lainy, it’s hard to believe the cute things that come out of his mouth. He probably
doesn’t even realize how she’s interpreting them. To him they’re just harmless words.
But instead of focusing on him, she pushes him to the back of her mind because bigger
things were going on in her life. It seemed like her mom was beginning to lose her mind.
She was constantly yelling and nagging and throwing things. He seemed like the only
escape. It wasn’t like she could leave her house. Lainy was the most helpful of the three
girls in the house, and since the accident her mom demanded more of her than ever. She
stayed home from school for almost two weeks helping to take care of her dad. Lainy
stomped down the stairs after she put a load of laundry in the dryer and signed onto
Facebook. After a few minutes of scrolling through her friends pictures, he messages her,
“Where were you today? I thought you were coming back. I miss you.” She can’t think of
a good response, so she asks him if he really does miss her. He says yes, he does. She
signs off before she says anything else, and can’t help but wish she had just spilled her
guts to him.
The lights flickered as they heard the booming thunder and another splintering
crack of lighting. The rain was coming down harder than before. Lainy’s mother heard
her daughter moan and for some reason felt her heart drop. I guess a mother’s instinct
really does exist, she thought to herself. She dropped the wooden spoon into the chili that
she was cooking, called out to her daughter and walked to the door. She could see that
Lainy was pointing through the glass, so she followed in that direction with her eyes.
Peering through the glass of the front door, she could see someone limp on the walkway,
mangled by the monstrous sequoia tree that moments ago stood in the front yard. She
screamed and flung the door open, calling her husband’s name.
When they first met she wasn’t attracted to him. Well, she didn’t really know how
she felt. She was only ten then. But now things were different. They talked about
everything, comparing stories and experiences. Some mornings, particularly Monday’s,
he would point from across the room and motion for her to come sit next to him.
Sometimes she’d shake her head no and return the pointing motion to see if he would
come sit by her instead. He would. Once he picked up his backpack to move across the
room, her heart would melt. She began to realize that even his smallest actions mean so
much to her. Lainy smiled at him and he grinned back at her and asked why she was
smiling. She shook her head and said nothing, then asked how his weekend was. He told
her stories about his… adventures through the woods late at night. She laughed and asked
about the outcome to let him know that she was interested. Included in his weekend
stories, was always some piece of information about his girlfriend: the story she told, how
he went over to her house for dinner, or about one of her friends. Lainy didn’t like
hearing about her, but she blamed herself for asking.
In bed that night, Lainy thought back to before the accident. She stepped into the
shower, the hot water surrounding her. Standing under the stream of the showerhead, she
let the water pound down on her head, shoulders and back. Lainy cried until she felt her
face become red and she could no longer breathe through her nose. She was crying so
hard she was numb. She couldn’t feel the heat of the water, but saw that her whole body
was red from the heat. It seemed like everything in her life was falling apart. Her parents
were fighting before the accident and it was all she could think about. She heard them
screaming at each other in the kitchen. She hoped her sisters were upstairs, listening to
music or talking to one of their friends instead of hearing their parents threatening each
other. Lainy just waited to see if they would stop, but them she heard glass shatter. She
flung open the glass door that separated the in-law suite from the main part of the house
and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Her dad was standing at the sink with the water
running. Her mother had flung a glass bowl to the ground, along with multiple knives and
glasses. She picked up a knife and yelled at her husband that she could fucking kill him.
Lainy grabbed the phone and dialed 911. She snatched the knife from her mother’s hand
and screamed at her parents. “Do you want me to call the cops? Do you really want your
daughter to stand here and call the police?” Lainy ran down to her room, slamming the
two doors on her way as she went. She stood in her room, shaking, and called him that
night in tears. She wanted someone to talk to. Someone that would understand, someone
that had a family that fought like this. He’s told her stories before so she knew he would
listen, she knew he would comfort her. But he didn’t answer.
Lainy’s dad was a smart man. And he wasn’t just smart; he was a genius. He
attended multiple universities in order to obtain multiple degrees including his BS, MS,
MD and PhD. He started his career off in Virginia and moved to California for seven
years, only to move his family back to Virginia. He did research through the University
of Virginia and worked in the neurology department. Lainy had been to his labs in both
California and Virginia. It was filled with instruments and chemicals and beakers and
digital pictures of different animal brains. She had seen enough of his posters and
skimmed the first page of enough of his grants to know that he was doing really difficult
work. And when he wasn’t in the lab he was in the operating room at the Hospital of the
University of Virginia. Such a demanding career took away a significant amount of time
from family life. Lainy’s father left around five in the morning, and very rarely had a day
off during the week. The time he got home from work varied everyday depending on how
many cases the hospital had scheduled or how soon a grant needed to be submitted. To
Lainy and her sisters, he wasn’t really around much. In her mom’s opinion he was a good
father, but if he was never home how could he be a good father? He was a good supplier,
a good provider, but Lainy wondered if he even knew her and her sisters.
She drove him home from school today and they talked about people in their
grade and about their recent relationships. He says he’s in love, that it’s the best he’s ever
felt. But before he notices that she has stopped responding, he let all of his feelings out.
She asks how he knows he loves his girlfriend. He tells her that you just know. And you
know because when you think about what you would be like without them, you realize
you would have nothing to look forward to during the day, no one you can go to with
anything you need to vent about. Lainy nods and fakes a smile, remaining quiet while
she turns up the radio. How can he not see how she feels? Once she pulls up at his house,
he stays in the car, lingering. Lainy is unsure about what he is doing, but she lets him
stay. He turns in the passenger seat, faces her and starts to talk. He asks about college and
why she’s going so far away. She answers, saying she loves it out west, and figures she’s
won’t talk to a lot of people from high school anyway. With a sad face, she looks at him
and knows what he’s going to say. He makes her smile and says, “Well I’m sure we’ll
still talk.” Lainy tells him that she hopes so, and realizes that he probably has no idea
how important he is to her.
Thinking back to that night, Lainy followed her mom outside, running toward her
dad. From where she was standing, he looked unconscious. Her mom called to her and
told her to dial 911, but she was frozen. She tried to take in what had just happened but
the storm decreased the visibility so much. The wind continued to blow, swaying the
trees over their heads. It seemed like hours passed, but once she went inside and told her
sisters what had happened, Lainy went back outside. There were flashing lights
everywhere she turned. Ambulances, cop cars and fire trucks choked off her driveway,
which stopped just in front of the gazebo in her front yard. Lainy watched as her father
was wheeled away on a stretcher then lifted into the ambulance.
For now, the only thing they could do was wait. Lainy stayed home with her
sisters and her mom went to the hospital to check on the status of her husband. Lainy
heard the phone rings from her bedroom. Her sisters always ignore the house phone,
which really pissed her off at times. On the third ring she answered and recognized her
mother’s voice. She was crying as she told Lainy that her dad was currently in the
Intensive Care Unit. The doctor’s are still testing and examining him so they don’t know
the extent of the injury, but even Lainy knows it’s bad.
Three weeks passed and for what seemed like the hundredth time, Lainy went to
visit her dad in the hospital to find that he was still hooked up to multiple machines to
assist him in living. He was unconscious, his body still in shock from the accident and the
surgery itself. As tears poured down her face, the doctors explained to Lainy and her
sisters what was going on with their father. They were told that because of where the tree
landed during the storm, he would be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his
life.
Lainy couldn’t stay in the hospital with her family. She couldn’t be there. It was
suffocating. She takes her car keys, walks out of the room and turns down the hall. She
immediately phone, and as she hears the automatic doors close, he answers the phone.
Lainy tells him through tears about her father. He says he can meet her at her house if she
needs him to. She needs him, but not just to comfort her. She loves him; how can he not
tell by the way she acts? Without ever telling him how she feels, she wonders how she’ll
live without him.
Lauren Hess
Crash
T-26 hours until draft time Kurt thought as he lay flat on his back on his bunk
inside his small room in Quanco base with his hands folded across his stomach. The quiet
hum of the small fan inside his stuffy room did not alleviate the heat but instead was
dragging him towards sleep but he was forcing himself to stay awake. He laid in his army
camouflage pants, black combat boots but only a white wife beater tee because of the
heat while his dog tag rested on the chain around his neck. He wanted to be ready in case
they called him, just in case there was any rumor of if he would be one of those selected.
He was the special case among the boys who had been training in the base over the
course of the summer; he wanted to be one of those picked to head over to Iraq.
All of the boys were those who had enlisted coming straight from high school
graduation, signing up as the US ARMY rolled into their hometown. All were young,
fresh faced, and barely twenty. Many joined up because they didn’t want to go to college
at all because those who just couldn’t afford college went into ROTC. For almost three
full months now they had been trained to handle any and all types of combat they could
experience in the desserts of Iraq. It had been brutal and the heat of the summer in the
middle of the day did not help but the commanding officials keep reminding them that it
was nothing to what they would experience over there. Most of the boys thought Kurt
was weird. He kept to himself while all of them had developed a brother like bond and
although he always was there for backup in the simulations of combat, they worried that
when in Iraq if he would be there for real.
Kurt had known that this is what they thought of him while he laid on his bunk
and he had promised himself that if once shipped over to Iraq he would make more of an
effort to bond with they guys. Over there it would be easier, he told himself, halfway
around the world he could really forget about the accident and move on with his life.
Subconsciously though he knew this wouldn’t happen, he wouldn’t allow himself to
become that close of friends with anyone again, especially when the next day in combat
there was a high risk of them dying. Every time he tried to make an effort with the other
army guys on base, Andrew and Dillon’s face’s would flash in his head causing him to
shut down completely.
He had been forced to join the army because he was practically shunned and run
out of his hometown. It was the only placed he had ever lived and was where his family
still lived. Pottsville is a small town in the mountains of Pennsylvania known for its
history of coal mining and the Molly McGuire’s. It was the biggest town out of those
surrounding it but still small enough that those other towns shipped over their teenagers
everyday to Pottsville because there were only enough students for one high school. It
was a town where you were lifelong friends with those who you grew up with and
everybody knew one another. It was a town where if something happened everybody
knew about it and had an opinion. Kurt had grown up with Andrew and Dillon and they
had been best friends since their days on the jungle gym. The tragedy was more than the
small town had ever experienced or could handle.
When you live in northern Pennsylvania that means snow and ice from November
pretty much through early March and that night happened to be the coldest in January.
Kurt was driving his dad’s old 1999 Ford Focus home at 2 in the morning with Andrew
in the passenger seat and Dillon sprawled across the back seat smoking a joint. Kurt had
wanted to leave Leah’s party earlier, knowing the roads would be slick, but Leah and
Dillon had a thing for each other so Dillon insisted on staying later because he was
hoping to get lucky. Finally Kurt and Andrew had managed to drag him out when it was
apparent nothing was going to happen but now Dillon was pissed off. “Fuck it man I
could’ve pulled it off, I was feeding her drinks all night.” He took a long drag on the joint
and exhaled slowly, and the smoke was beginning to fog up the windows in the cold
night air. Kurt finally said, “Dude you can’t hot box in here, I can’t see a damn thing,
open your window.” Dillon ignored him and continued to smoke. Kurt turned to Andrew
for help but he was drunk and messing with the radio. “Whatever” he muttered to himself
and turned the crank to roll down the window himself. As the freezing rush of winter air
rushed inside the windshield started to defog immediately but by then the trucks
headlights were already upon them.
The truck smashed into Andrew’s passenger seat and the only thing Kurt
remembers was the sound of shattering glass as his head smashed against the steering
wheel breaking his nose. The accident report said that Kurt had run a stop sign which is
why the truck hit him and caused the car to spin 3 times before hitting a patch of ice and
sliding right into a ditch, causing it to turn over. Andrew had died on impact when the
truck came barreling through him while Dillon had managed to brace himself until the car
turned over and his body smashed against the roof of the car immediately snapping his
spinal cord; he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. Kurt was released from the hospital the next
evening but by then the accident was already in the paper, local news, and the town’s
gossip. It remained there throughout the next couple of weeks following Andrew’s
funeral and Dillon’s coma.
Kurt was an only child and his parents were normal people, his mom was a
housewife and his father a general contractor. They were also well liked throughout the
town for their kindness and traditional values, plus they were best friends with Dillon and
Andrew’s parents. When Kurt’s father picked him up from the hospital they drove in
silence until they reached the white ranch style home. Walking into the kitchen Kurt saw
his mother silently crying at the table in front of the morning paper. She couldn’t even
meet his gaze even though she did give him a quick hug. “His blood alcohol levels
showed he wasn’t drinking so we don’t have to bring him down to the station, we should
probably contact the lawyer though,” his father repeated what the police officer had told
them at the hospital. It’s true, Kurt thought, I wasn’t drinking because I wanted to be
responsible, so why the hell did this have to happen? He just turned and walked into his
room where he didn’t emerge for basically the rest of winter and spring, he just couldn’t
go to Andrew’s funeral and he definitely couldn’t go to sit next to Dillon’s hospital bed
knowing he did this to him. Thankfully he had enough credits to barely scrape by with
graduating from high school. It was when Ann (Andrew’s mom) still refused to see
Kurt’s mother two months after the accident that he knew he had to get out of there. The
army was the obvious choice, busy enough to distract his mind, guaranteed money, and
the opportunity to go somewhere where he would have no memory of his two best
friends. When he told his parents his father said he was proud of him for making some
kind of decision with his life. His mother went ballistic; she said Kurt shouldn’t let the
people of the town run him out of his home over something that wasn’t even his fault and
he really had no control over. However, driving out of Pottsville towards the army base
he felt absolutely nothing.
At Quanco Kurt received the call he had been hoping for, he had the privilege to
serve and defend the United States in its War on Terror. His troop of men had a direct
flight from the base in the US to the US base in Iraq, eighteen hours total. Kurt was
seated next to Tom Marshall, a guy from the other selected troop who also grew up in a
small town but instead in northern New York. Kurt and Tom shared all their high school
stories and about growing up and how they ended up joining in the army. Tom’s dad was
a lieutenant so he had a legacy up to; Kurt just told him he didn’t know what else to do
with his life, leaving the accident completely out of it, choosing not to be judged.
Arriving in Baghdad at seven in the morning local time the boys were hungry, jet lagged,
and stifled by one hundred and ten degree Fahrenheit heat, but this is what they had been
training for. When they reached their quarters they decided to put in word to be assigned
to room together. The days dragged on and the boys experienced shifts of premises and
civilian patrol causing them to grow significantly dependent on one another because of
the strict orders of non-communication with the local Iraqis.
By the fourth week they were there Kurt had only called home once to tell his
parents that he was stationed in Iraq. After that he tried to push Pottsville out of his mind.
He was the only one who didn’t talk about life back home or receive letters. When other
guys would start to talk about their families and friends he would silently leave the room.
Tom eventually questioned him about it and the only thing Kurt replied was that
something had happened to make his family and friends not as close to him as they once
had. For himself he had no desire to talk to any of those who reminded him of his old life,
they reminded him of Andrew and Dillon and he still couldn’t stomach the picture of his
last sight of them with their bodies mangled and contorted among glass, dashboards, and
car roofs.
On the third day in their fourth week in Baghdad the commanding officers called
the troops in early for an update. They told them that they had gotten word of an
underground terrorist group that was going to be making an attack on one of the cities
political offices while some of the legal committees were voting to pass a new law that
the group was against. The officers then selected fifty of the men to take the first round of
Jeeps into the city and secure the perimeter in the streets around the building. Kurt and
Tom were among the first to be picked and didn’t mind going. Upon arriving to the main
street in the middle of a busy work day in Bagdad, thirty of them went to search the
building near the political office while the rest searched the office themselves. Kurt and
Tom were among a small group that was to search a small building that was currently
empty and up for rent on the end of the block near the political offices. When Kurt and
Tom went on the preliminary search of the second floor they knew something didn’t feel
right. Right when they were about to enter the second bedroom Kurt received a message
through his head seat that the men downstairs had found bomb paraphernalia so Tom and
Kurt were to return to the base. Before Kurt had a chance to talk Tom had pushed open
the door and entered into the room. Kurt smelled it before the light blinded him and the
blast caused his body to slam into the window.
***
Sitting on the plane Kurt leans against the window with his eyes closed, trying to
do anything to alleviate the pounding and images inside his head. All he can remember
was burning in his eyes and the sound of shattering glass. Now his senses were so
heightened that even the tinkering of the glasses in the stewardess’s cart had him on edge.
He just couldn’t get his nerves to calm down, his eyes seemed to be alert even behind his
sockets, and although he was getting a three week leave to recover he wasn’t sure if he
could be happy about it. If the army hadn’t mandated the leave he wasn’t sure he could
have been able to bring himself back to Pottsville. Although he left the curtained divider
up lying in a hospital bed next to a legless and blind Tom everyday, it was difficult to
avoid looking at him and pretending it wasn’t his friend. Although Kurt’s injuries were
minor the explosion had made headlines and for him the entire eighteen hour flight was
spent praying that those headlines hadn’t been international. He just didn’t know if he
had the ability to do this all over again if his neighbors found out about this accident too.
Andrew Dillon and Tom’s faces were all the images he had to carry around now and he
didn’t need his neighbors knowing one more had been added to the list.
Exiting the gate he saw the anxious face of his mom and typical nonchalant
expression on his dad’s. They collected his bags while his mother kept grabbing him,
hugging him, and cursing herself for ever allowing him to have gone into this war. She
continued to babble on about everything going on in the town until his father interrupted,
“Son I just want to let you know, the explosion was on the news last week, your name
and injuries were mentioned as well as those of Tom Marshall’s.”
“What do you mean our names were mentioned?” Kurt replied quickly.
“They reported that you and Tom were the soldiers that were immediately
involved and that you suffered minor injuries while Tom’s condition has yet to be
released although it does sound pretty severe, have you seen or heard about what’s
happening to him?”
Kurt couldn’t bring himself to tell his father how bad Tom’s condition was and
how ashamed he was to be lying in that bed next time, useless, and not being able to look
or talk to him.
“No Dad they separated us, they took us to different hospitals.”
“I hope it’s not too severe, what that boy did was serve his country and helped to
save lives, I’m sure he realizes that.” Kurt didn’t know how to respond. The car slowly
pulled in the drive of their ranch style home and Kurt got out immediately, going inside
to shower and change.
For the rest of the week he didn’t go to visit any of his high school friends that
were still hanging around town, instead he lay in bed angry and not believing he was
back in the same spot he had left just four months ago. One day his mother came into his
room, “Kurt, Dillon’s mom has been calling asking if you’re ok, I hope you don’t mind
but I was talking to her about what happened and how you’ve been doing. She wants to
know if you would be interested in seeing Dillon, he just woke up from his coma last
week right before you came home.”
He paused before replying, “You told her about what happened with the
explosion, about what happened with Tom?”
“Yes I did and she was very concerned about your friend and said she would be
praying for him. But we both think it would be beneficial for you and Dillon to see one
another.”
“Mom, you don’t even know the full story, they warned me about the bomb just
before it happened. I was lying in that bed next to him and I couldn’t even bring myself
to look at him. How do you think I can even get up and drive over to see Dillon? Also if
Dillon’s mom knew what had actually happened she wouldn’t want me there anymore.”
“Kurt, I told her what actually happened in Iraq. I’ve known since before we came
to get you. The army called and wanted to recommend therapy or counseling for you due
to the explosion so his mom knows honey and she still wants you to come. Please
consider it.” She left the room and closed the door silently.
Kurt didn’t know how to respond, he could barely absorb what he was hearing. If
Dillon’s mom knows did that mean everyone else would find out? Why was this all
happening again? He didn’t want to go out; he didn’t want to see how his old friends
thought of him. He needed to leave, but Kurt soon realized he didn’t have anywhere else
to go.
Two days later he walked into the kitchen. “Where are you off to?” his mother
asked. “If they want to see me than I’ll go see them” he told her. He drove the twenty
minutes to the hospital and entered room number one hundred and twenty which was
bright, smelled clean, and filled with the sound of Dillon’s respirator.
Courtney Keeler
Disorder
It’s been a while since I’ve visited the house in which I spent a majority of my
high school years. I traveled out of state for college, then bounced around the country
afterwards chasing endless jobs and promotions. Honestly, though, I think I’ve been
avoiding the blue and white, two story colonial on Jackson Drive. It wasn’t until our old
realtor dug up my email address fifteen years later to tell me that our old house was on
the market again that I figured it was safe to go back.
The open house was on a Sunday, so I flew in Saturday and stayed at an
EconoLodge next to the airport. I tried to sit in my room all day, but between the jetlag
and the poor wallpaper choice, I couldn’t stand not doing anything. I was starting to feel
trapped again, and I knew a drive through town would give me the air I needed. Even
now, I still prefer driving at night, observing the dark side of things once everyone has
gone to sleep. It was night when I drove to college, alone, it was night when I drove four
hours to divorce my first husband, and it was night when I drove home from the one and
only visit I paid to my sister in rehab. It was cold, the sky clear, unlike my swimming
head.
*
“I hear you get visitation on holidays.”
“Yeah. Good behavior or some shit like that.” I started at my sisters crude
language, I wasn’t used to hearing her curse.
“What, have you not been good?” I instantly hate trying to inject humor into our
conversation, into a place like this. When my sister doesn’t answer my question, though, I
regret it even more, and give her a habitual once-over. In the ten minutes I’ve already
been here, I’ve avoided looking at her pale, skinny arms and deep eye sockets. Now, I
scrutinize them, trying to remember what she looked like when she left and whether or
not this can be considered an improvement.
“I hear you got into college.” I know she’s only changing the conversation, but I
take the bait.
“Yeah!” My enthusiasm sounds fake as it bounces off the linoleum floors in the
fluorescent lighting, but the silence that ensues is even more terrifying. I continue at the
risk of conversation ceasing entirely.
“It’s small, so it has a great student to faculty ratio. And it’s one of the top art
schools in the nation. I think I’m going to wait to declare a major just so I can try out a
whole myriad of classes. I was looking at the course selection catalogue, and—” I
continue to ramble in this fashion until I realize that Mel is staring out the window, not
paying attention. At the time I thought she was mad at me for avoiding the fact that I
would be thousands of miles away, able to visit only over winter break. Now I realize that
she should have been going through the same thing, applying to and choosing colleges,
instead of wasting away in some “program.”
“Well, it’s late. I guess I should go.” The minutes of visiting hours have ticked
painfully by, filled with mindless small talk after our realization that certain topics
needed avoiding. I can’t remember if she said goodbye. I do remember sitting in my car,
crying, until I realized it was dark and my parents would be expecting me home. I was
scared—despite the nurses in white and her blue veins showing through her paper-thin
skin, I could still see myself in my sister, but I had no way of knowing just how deep
those connections ran.
*
I was only five when my family decided to move out of California. It would be
the second move of my life, what I didn’t know at the time was that five more would
follow before high school graduation. As a last-ditch effort to remedy the move out of the
sunshine state, our parents took my sister and me to Sea World. I remember the afternoon
heat, pressing in on me from all directions. My parents, though, were cold. They still
weren’t speaking from an earlier argument in the car. Mel was oblivious, too dazzled by
the penguins and the dolphins to notice.
I can still see the look of relief on my mother’s face when we asked her to play in
the jungle gym. Thanks God, she must have thought, something to tire them out.
Somehow, in our excitement, Mel and I managed to lose each other in the maze of
ladders and bridges. It wasn’t until my second time through the green tunnel that the
panic set in: I was lost. There was a tightening in my chest when I realized I had no idea
where my sister was, or how to find her. I sat down and cried.
It felt like hours later that my sister came bounding around the bend. The world
was okay again. I had my sister, the protective wing around my shoulder. In the
misadventures and moves that followed this incident, Mel and I only grew closer. We
became each other’s second half, for every boy problem she helped me with, there was a
homework assignment that I completed for her. I loved our quirky relationship, I loved
the fact that people came to expect that we came as a packaged set. Despite our differing
hair colors, we even looked the same, taking the same features from each parent. We
were perfect, the kind of sisters you would only expect to exist in movies. At that point, I
could hardly tell where Mel ended and I began.
*
I arrive back home from the Rosewood Rehabilitation Facility at 9 pm to find my
parents still sitting at the dinner table. Out of obligation, I join them, though I don’t feel
much like talking. I silently hope they don’t expect answers, not now. I lean forward until
my forehead rests on the edge of the table, a question mark in my seat, as my mother
prepares a plate of tepid food for me. “I’m not hungry,” I mumble from my hunched-over
position. My mother drops the plate in front of me, the clatter of which causes me to jerk
upright.
“God damn it. God damn it!” The second time, she throws the pot lid in her other
hand onto the table, clipping the side of my plate and scattering mixed vegetables. “I will
not put up with this shit from you too. I have one defect, one screw up. I don’t need two.”
I’m out of my chair so quickly I don’t even know whether or not this tirade
continues. About half way up the stairs it hits me why she’s so mad at me: I’m her sister,
I was supposed to protect her. How could I let this happen? How did I not see it coming?
Without even realizing it I pass my room and enter the bathroom. I lock the door and
kneel in front of the toilet, fingers wound white-knuckled around the rim, bracing myself.
Moment of truth. I stare into the water trying to imagine how she felt, what awful things
in her life made this seem the lesser of two evils. How did I let this happen? Did I let
something slip by? I rack my brain for hours, going over each detail of the past months.
We did everything together, what was I missing? How could we seem so close but be so
different? How much was a lie? How long did she hide this?
Sometime around midnight I lie down, curled around the toilet, as unanswerable
questions run through my head. I feel alone, abandoned, and this time I don’t have the
comfort of knowing that at any moment, Mel will come bounding around the corner to
save me. This time, we are both lost.
*
I remember staying there, in the bathroom, until well into the next day. I hated
myself for doing it, and I hated my parents for not doing anything about it, but above all
else I hated Mel for causing all of this. I wasn’t even ashamed to admit it, because as
soon as I realized during visitation just how messed up she was, I had lost my sister. The
girl I used to play board games with when the power went out would never be back, I
would never see my smiling second half again, no matter how many times her body came
to visit. I wasn’t wishing for her to die, to me, she was already dead.
The months that followed were shaky and uncertain. I had never been an only
child before, and was hesitant about my new freedom. It didn’t help that my parents,
especially my mother, weren’t used to an only child either. Mom would not have a
second screw up, though, not if she could help it. I almost feel bad for her, thinking that
Mel was a result of bad mothering. But what could I have told her? That it was just some
thing that had been inside her all along? Would she have smothered me then, trying to
extinguish some unidentified thing that I couldn’t be certain was even there? So instead I
saved my own skin and did my best not to disappoint her, finishing second semester of
senior year with straight A’s, and working steadily at the corner store. If it was perfection
from me that kept my mother sane, it was perfection I gave.
Everything was evening out to a new equilibrium when Mel called one weekend
in November. Her voice came as a shock to me; I had been expecting another
telemarketer and wasn’t prepared to run head first into the elephant in the room. Even
through the static over the phone I could tell she was weak, and instantly I could see her
again, fragile and pale, contrasting against that dark corduroy couch. The image made me
uncomfortable, self conscious, as if she were really there, and I was unsure of what to say
to her.
"Is everything all right?" It's the first thing that pops into my head, but one of
those questions whose answer I'm not sure I want to hear.
"Yeah." There's a long pause. At the same time I start to ask why she called, she
continues to talk. We share awkward, static-y laughter over our blunder.
"It's another good behavior thing. I won a phone call home in group today." It's
takes me a moment to realize what she's talking about. Group Therapy Sessions. A nurse
explained this to us when we went to scope out Rosewood, a time that seems centuries
ago now. I rack my brain trying to remember the details of their "innovative risk and
reward program." So far all I've dug up is the name. I remember scoffing about it the first
time I heard it, making a mental note to joke about it with Mel after. I never got to,
though. We left Rosewood with one empty seat in the car.
"That's good." I'm making a half-ass attempt to set myself up for the joke I never
got to tell, all the while knowing that it's never going to happen. Only the old Mel would
have laughed about it anyway.
"Yeah." Another long pause ensues as I twist the phone chord nervously around
my fingers. I'm simultaneously terrified of Mel hanging up and at a loss for words to
continue our conversation. There was a list I used to keep of things to tell her the next
time we spoke, but I have since abandoned it. I realize now that the minutia of my life is
probably old news to someone in rehab; she has heard such horror stories in 'group' that
she's the one with the stories now. She is a story now.
"I talked about you." I'm so relieved that she has said something it's not until she
continues that I comprehend what she has said. "It was that time in kindergarten. When
we dressed up in each others clothes, remember?"
Of course I remember the story perfectly.
*
We were in kindergarten, in the same class. One morning Mel woke me up early
with a mischevious grin on her face. "Let's play a trick on Mommy."
We proceeded to dress up in the others clothes, Mel in my favorite pink shirt and
me in her trademark jean jacket. We were awkward and bumbling, not used to dressing
without the guiding hand of our mother. We managed, though, and once we were done,
we tromped down the stairs and burst into the kitchen.
"We're ready for school!" I yelled, reduced to giggles the second my mother
turned around.
"Why, Melanie, don't you look fabulous today!" Our mother played along,
pretending not to notice our sly glances to one another and the fit of giggles that followed
every time she used the wrong name.
Unfortunately, this behavior lasted for only a half an hour, until we had to go to
school. Then our mom put her foot down, and reluctantly we agreed to respond to our
own names again. I guess we were still too young at that point to notice we didn't even
have the same color hair. Boy, we were naive.
*
Remembering this incident, I laugh nervously, unsure of where this is going, and
not wanting to say the wrong thing and stop Mel's talking.
"Umm, yeah. You remember. I just told that story. No one else had anything else
good to say I guess."
Something is wrong though. It's a stupid story, no more than an entertaining
anecdote. And it has nothing to do with an eating disorder. Finally I can't stand her lies,
her withholding of information.
"Where's the risk in that?" I snap. "That barely deserves a phone call home." I
consider for a second hanging up on Mel, as though her calling is another lie, the reaping
of some undeserved award. “In a place filled with screw-ups, I’ll bet there’s a ninety
percent chance someone else had something better to say.”
"You bitch!" Mel's voice cracks, I can almost see her jumping out of her chair,
hollow chest pumping with the extra effort. "You don't know what it's like. You'll never
know what it's like. For you information, it's called recalling good times. Happy
memories, you know? I'm pretty sure you were there."
I should be quiet. I should keep my mouth shut. But ‘never know what it’s like’?
The phrase runs on repeat through my head. Oh God, am I actually jealous of her? That
she is miles away living a new life, becoming a new person, and I’m stuck here being
Plain Jane?
"So what, you're depressed now too?” My flight or fight instincts kick in, and I
channel my confusion and horror into anger. “Can't remember the 'happy times'? Well,
for your information, they were still happening until you up and eating disordered on us
all. Seeing as you’re going for some sort of high score here, why don't you add ‘poor
anger management’ to the list too? You seem to be well on your way to that one!" It
doesn’t even make sense, I’m the one who snapped, but I can’t stop my momentum.
“Better yet, why don't you just kill yourself, top it off with ‘suicidal’, I'm sure it would
make things a whole lot easier on everybody!” I didn't even know I could scream this
loud. For a second I think I’ve had the upper hand, but soon realize I’m holding the
phone in front of my face, yelling at it instead of into it. Mel’s voice hits me as soon as
the phone reaches my ear again.
"—and you call me the selfish one." She's speaking quietly, almost inaudibly. "I
hope you meant it. And you know what? I hope one day, you wake up and realize you
sent the wrong person to rehab. Because you're the sick one." Her voice is shaking. I can
tell she's about to cry, and I want to say something, anything to defend myself, but I've
petered out. I'm empty.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Mel sobs, "you were my older sister! You were supposed
to protect me! To teach me! Do you have any idea how tiring, how embarrassing it was
to have to be the bigger sister all of the time? To take your hand and lead the way? Jesus,
is it really that much of a crime to want to be taken care of for once?" I can't understand
the words. I don’t want to. "But God forgive little miss Rachel ever step up to help. No,
she just runs to mommy and daddy. Well I’ve got news for you, soon you’ll run out of
people to run to. Then what? Huh?” My mouth is open but there’s no more blood left in
my head to respond. “Thanks for nothing."
The line goes dead. I'm suddenly aware of my breathing, aware of my body,
standing, swaying slightly as it's center of gravity shifts. There’s a slow pulsing at my
temples, and an increasing churning in my stomach. I think I’m about to throw up, but
suddenly there’s a burning in my lungs, a cry for oxygen undelivered. The blackness
swoops in and knocks me down, passed out on the floor.
*
Unfortunately, as soon as I woke up the nausea came back, and I barely made it to
the bathroom before emptying the few contents of my stomach. I had to gag back a
second wave of vomit as I realized this was the second time I was in this position, only
this time I had my answers.
Not two minutes later Mom came into the bathroom, arms filled with freshly
washed towels. When she saw me, she nearly lost it, but kept her composure long enough
to stow the towels in the closet and close the door behind her when she left. After that
night, it didn’t matter how perfect of a child I was, my mother hated me. I disgusted her. I
think that was the point when she knew, maybe couldn’t put the words to it but knew I
was somehow responsible. I wouldn’t figure it out until weeks later, after Mel died: I had
killed her.
She died just days before her visit home, close enough for the nurses not to
suspect our phone conversation had anything to do with it. In a sick sort of way, it came
as a relief to me. Not only did I get out of having to deal with what I had said from the
cover of a phone, but when her body was still around, it only served to remind me of
losing my sister the first time. Now, I could finally let her go, and start remembering her
for who she used to be, though I didn’t really know how far back I needed to go to do
this. My parents filed for divorce shortly after we buried Mel, and I managed to slip off to
college just in time for them to both move again, though this time each to a different
state. I watched from the protective bubble of four-year university as my parents tried to
pick up the pieces, remember who they are without each other. I guess I did the same
thing, creating a new life independent of my sister. It wasn’t until a drunken conversation
at the end of senior year that I told anyone about Mel. I was hoping it would be more
cathartic, but revealing my secret sister turned out to be rather anticlimactic. I wonder
now if this isn’t what planted the initial seed of my return visit home.
*
I slept in late on Sunday, too late to take advantage of the complimentary
breakfast in the hotel lobby. There was a jerkiness to my actions, sudden spurts of
determination followed closely by paralyzing self-consciousness that must have made me
look mentally unstable. I calmed myself down a little bit during the car ride to the house,
and appreciated that fact that there were several other cars in the driveway when I
arrived. I definitely felt less likely to have an emotional breakdown in front of other
people.
Once inside, I the first thing I looked for was my old room. It was odd to see
someone else’s furniture where mine had once been, but what came as even more of a
shock was the size of the room. What had seemed like biggest room in the house now
barely fit a twin bed, desk, and bureau comfortably. The window, out of which I used to
dream of escaping, now seemed half its original size and light-years further from the
nearest tree. In fact it is the trees, the only things I hadn’t amplified in my mind, that have
gotten bigger. It’s funny how sometimes we just need a little time to see things how they
really are.
The bathroom has been remodeled, or at least repainted. Everything is now a
pleasing blue color, except for the floor tiles, which are a complimentary cream. My
parent’s old bedroom, a room into which I was rarely admitted, still seems foreign and
forbidden, and I only looked quickly around it. I wasn’t until I saw the decorations for a
little girl in Mel’s old room that I started to find what I had come in search of. How many
stupid fights would this girl get into with her siblings? When will she realize that these
things are all insignificant? Will it be too late? Will she have already lost someone, or
herself, pushed too far?
I decided that day, standing where Mel must have stood, that I would need to stop
taking responsibility for what happened to Mel. I felt airy, almost empty, as I walked
back to my car. The next morning, I caught an early morning flight back to my home, my
real home, where my daughter and husband were waiting for me, and never thought about
Mel again.
Seri Lee
Where’s Mom?
Life seemed perfect for us. I've always been "daddy's girl” and my younger
brother Tyler has always been "momma's boy." People would always think of us as the
“perfect four family.” We’re not the filthy rich family who spends money like it’s
nothing. Yet, we’re not poor. My parents own a business together, both working at the
restaurant. Yes, they’re both amazing at cooking, so they cook us delicious food. We live
in a nice decent-sized house. Grand mom used to live with us. Since my parents are
usually working from morning to night, grand mom would take care of me and Tyler.
We’re really close with her and she cares for us like we’re her own children. Yet, about
two months ago, she moved out to her own little apartment. She thought since Tyler and I
are grown up, we would be fine without her. I miss her but it’s not like I don’t see her.
We see her at least once a week and she lives in the same town as us, so it’s not a hassle
to see her. I would say we’re your average family
My brother, Tyler is two years younger than me. He’s a brat. If he doesn’t get
what he wants, he cries until he does. Mom spoils him so much. At times, I don’t think
mom knows how to say “no” to him. Since he is bigger than me, he thinks he’s got more
power than I do.
“Tyler, just because you’re bigger than me, doesn’t mean you can boss me
around. I’m still older than you… get it through your head. You can’t boss me around
thinking you’re tough!”
We fight countless times a day and mom would always be the one breaking our
fights apart. Mom would always side with me in fights because I’m the oldest. Though,
even though when he does something bad, mom never disciplines him.
Ever since I was in kindergarten, I wanted to be a teacher. Some day, I hope to be
just like my kindergarten teacher. Even though I’m still young, I feel like I already have
my life planned out. After high school, I’m going to go to West Chester University to get
my teaching degree. Mom told me that West Chester University was known as a teacher
school. After college, I’m going to get married, be a teacher, and in the summer, I’m
going to be a summer soccer coach.
“Stacey, you’ll be a great teacher, a great soccer coach, and a great mom one
day,” Mom would always say, with a smile on her face.
Mom always talked about being a nurse. She told me stories about how she
always wanted to be a nurse ever since she was little. She told me that West Chester
University was not only a good school for teaching, but also a great school for nursing.
She told me that she wanted to be a nurse because she wanted to help the sick people out.
I looked at mom as a superwoman. Not only does she own a business with dad, she’s a
mom, and she’s the smartest person I know.
Grand mom was coming over to eat dinner with us. Mom came home an hour
early to prepare and cook us a special meal. I loved the feeling, eating delicious food,
with the four most important people in my life. My family was eating dinner when mom
broke the news to us. She told us that she was going to go back to nursing school.
“Wow! That’s great Mom. You can finally pursue your dream!” I said out loud.
I was so happy for her that I didn’t think it through. By the look on Grand mom and dad’s
face, things didn’t look too great. What was going on? Weren’t they happy for her? Then
I realized that the business would be in trouble without her. I thought, we can’t be selfish,
we should let her live her dream. I was wrong.
Mom explained that she wasn’t going to live with us, while she was getting her
education. She told us that it was better for her. She explained how she would be able to
focus better, which lead to better grades.
“Stacey, Tyler, everything will be okay, just listen to dad,” Mom said in her soft
voice.
It didn’t hit me until that night, when I was going to bed. Tyler was crying, like
the cry baby he was. How long is she going to be gone for? She never told us. I felt like I
had just experienced death, but she’s not dead.
A couple months have passed by without Mom at being home. I'll admit, I didn't
realize how much mom did for us. I could tell that dad feels sorry for us. One random
day, dad came home with a puppy for me and Tyler. I know he intentionally doesn't mean
to, but we're his babies and he spoils us like none other. We named the puppy, Happy.
We were so excited to play with him and to have him.
“There’s a lot to know about dogs. They aren’t like fish. You guys need to be
responsible. We need to train Happy, walk him, feed him, and clean up after him,” Dad
said.
Dad and I had a long talk on my way to soccer practice. He told me that I was a
good daughter and that he loved me. He told me that I was old enough to hear the truth.
"The truth about what, Dad?" I asked.
"Stacey, truth hurts sometimes, but you’re a big girl and should know this. Mom
isn't actually attending nursing school; she's in New Jersey and took one of our family
cars. She just needs some time alone. Don’t mention it to Tyler, he’s not old enough to
know,” He responded.
I asked myself, "What does that mean? She's been gone for months, isn't that
enough time for whatever time she needs alone?” Not to mention, she lied to us. She was
the person always telling me and Tyler that lying was a bad thing and that we should
never do it.
After school, Grand mom comes over to watch over us while dad is at work. She
cooks for us and makes sure we get all our homework done.
"Stacey, everything will be alright, you’re a big girl," Grand mom would always
say.
I know she was just trying to help but I absolutely hated when she would tell me
that. Since dad owns a business, he's always busy and can’t get out of work. Since Mom
isn’t there with him, he comes home later. Sometimes, he calls Grand mom to tell us to
eat dinner without him when he’s really busy.
Dad asked Lillian, my older cousin if she could take and pick me up from soccer
practice. I love hanging out with Lillian because she's the coolest person I know but I feel
bad when she gives me rides. She lives an hour away and I'm sure she has better things to
do on a Saturday, instead of taking me to soccer practice. Lillian is my dad's sister's
daughter. I look up to her and one day; hope to be just like her. I think of her as my older
sister since I can always count on her.
It was two weeks away from Christmas. Every Christmas, since I could
remember, we celebrated at Lillian’s house. I come from a big family, and all my uncles,
aunts, cousins come over to Lillian’s. My cousins decided to play Secret Santa this year,
where we each get a name and buy the one person a present, without the person knowing
that you have him/her. I was so excited for Christmas that every day, I would count
down. I had my 11th grade cousin, Jake and Tyler had my 9th grade cousin Emily. It’s
funny how I had a boy and my brother had a girl. Dad promised me and Tyler that we
would go shopping on Sunday, to buy the gifts.
On Sunday, Dad, Tyler, Grand mom, and I went to King of Prussia Mall. Since it
was Christmas season, the mall was so crowded. I knew exactly what to get Jake. Since
he wore hats a lot, I was going to buy him a hat from Lids and also get him a twenty
dollar Visa gift card. The limit for Secret Santa was twenty-five dollars minimum but
Dad said it was okay to go over. Tyler didn’t know what to get Emily, so I ended up
choosing something out for her. I chose a scarf and a sterling silver necklace on sale.
Emily was always the fashionable one, so I knew she would love her gift.
Finally, it was Christmas Eve! We were in the car, on our way to Lillian’s. I could
not wait. I have been waiting all day for this day, to see all my cousins. When I arrived to
Lillian’s, everyone greeted me and Tyler with hugs. They were surprised to see Happy,
our new puppy, but they thought he was the cutest puppy ever. We did Secret Santa and
everyone loved their presents. We decided to make Secret Santa a tradition from now on.
Tyler and I are the babies of the family, so we get the most attention. Everyone seemed
extra nice to us. It was weird coming into Lillian’s without Mom. Not one person asked
where Mom was. I knew everyone knew about it. I’m sure Mom was the center of the
gossip. It did bother me that Mom lied to me, but I still didn’t want anyone to talk bad
about her.
It has almost been a year since Mom has been gone. Mother’s Day is coming up
and it makes me sad that Mom’s still not here. In class, my class made Mother’s Day
cards. I made one but I wasn’t planning to give it to Mom since I don’t see her. That
night, in bed, I started crying. Dad came in and asked me what was wrong. I told him that
I missed Mom and that I couldn’t give her the Mother’s Day card I made her. My parents
taught me not to curse or say bad words.
“Dad, when the hell is she coming back?” I cried.
Dad didn’t even yell at me for using the word, “hell.” He just hugged me,
“Stacey, I know you’re trying to be strong for your brother and yourself, but it is
okay to cry. You have been such a good girl this year and you don’t deserve this,” Dad
replied.
Dad didn’t make sense. If I didn’t deserve this, why was this happening to me?
What did I do for Mom to run off? What did Tyler do? What did Dad do? Didn’t Mom
have enough “time to herself?” Everything was so great before she left. She smiled every
day and seemed so happy. I just didn’t understand. That night, I cried myself to sleep.
The next day, Dad told me and Tyler that we were going to visit Mom this
weekend. It’s not ironic that the day before, I cried to Dad about this. Dad must have felt
so bad that he reached a hold of Mom. I was nervous to see Mom. I told myself that when
I see her, I’m going to run up to her and hug her so tight that she would never want to let
go of me. Yet, in a way, I was mad at her. She lied to me and Tyler that she was going to
nursing school when she wasn’t. She never came to visit once. She didn’t call to wish us
a merry Christmas. She didn’t call on mine or Tyler’s birthday.
Through a two hour drive, we came to Mom’s apartment. It was a nice apartment.
When I went in, I saw pictures of me and Tyler, which made me happy. I thought it was
going to be a temporary stay, but by looking at her apartment, it didn’t seem too
temporary. I’ll admit, seeing Mom was awkward. She asked how Tyler and I were doing.
There were no nursing books or any proof that she was going to school.
“Mom, are you still attending nursing school” I asked.
I know I shouldn’t have ratted Dad out, but I just had to tell her that I knew.
“Mom, I know you’re not attending nursing school! I don’t understand why you
had to lie to me. Did I do anything wrong for you to leave?” I yelled.
Mom gave Dad a stern look. I felt bad but I couldn’t hold it in. Tyler’s face
expression seemed confused. Though, he didn’t say much.
“Stacey, I’m sorry. I just needed some time alone.”
“How much time do you need? Mom, do you know how hard it is for me? I know
I have Dad but I don’t have a Mom in the house. Without you in the house, everything’s
so different. When are you coming back? I miss you.” I cried.
Mom didn’t reply. She just hugged me and Tyler and started tearing up. We all
had dinner then left. Eating dinner, I realized I missed Mom’s cooking.
Grand mom moved back in with me, Dad, and Tyler. When Dad was at work,
Grand mom took care of us. I felt like I had to be a mother-like figure to Tyler. Tyler and
I rarely ever fight any more. I help him with his homework and he listens to me.
We visit Mom every year, the same time, around Mother’s Day. It’s been three
years since Mom hasn’t lived with us. My parents aren’t officially divorced but they are
separated. I have accepted the fact that Mom wasn’t living with us. One day, I hope she
will return and live with us again. Though, Mom not being with us, isn’t holding us back,
we’re living life to the fullest.
Chris Maharaj
Tea for Two
When I looked at her, almost three years ago, I knew I loved her. One night,
during my senior year in high school my girlfriend Colleen was at my house and she was
staying the night. My Dad is a workaholic lawyer who has his own firm in New York
City. That night he was working a big case he had to present in court the next day, so he
stayed overnight at his office preparing. I had to take advantage of the opportunity of an
open house, and instead of having a party; I wanted a night alone with my girlfriend, who
would have been to date, almost four years. My mother wasn’t around either, because
she passed away when I was seven years old from lung cancer, so it was just my brother
Justin and I. We raised ourselves, and although our father provided for us, he wasn’t
much of a father figure. Anyway, she told her parents she was sleeping at a friend’s
house, and I picked her up. Obviously, we did what any high school couple did when no
adults are around. However, this time, it was different. We have had sex many times
before that, however, never without a condom. She had just gone on birth control, so we
didn’t see the need for me to use one. This time we weren’t just having sex, we were
making love. It felt natural, not forced like all of our other times, and it wasn’t awkward
anymore. We were completely comfortable around each other. After, we talked about
getting married, and, jokingly, what we were going to name our kids that we were going
to have together. Ironically, that conversation came into play a little faster then we
anticipated…
********
“Jer, we have to tell them today.” Colleen said, in total shock. “I’m not getting an
abortion, I’m Catholic. I can’t, we have to tell them. I’m sorry for putting this on you
right now, I know you wanted to wait until we figure things out, but I can’t wait. I’m
sorry, they are upstairs; let’s just get this over with.” As she quickly stands up, and walks
over to the bottom of the steps, I stared blankly at the television screen. A minute ago, I
was watching a movie. Now, I’m living in one. “Colleen, I, can we please…” “Mom,
Dad!” She yelled from the bottom of the steps. “What is it?” Her dad responded. “Can
you both please come downstairs; we need to tell you something.” Colleen’s voice
immediately went limp, and she started to cry.
Hearing two distinct sets of determined footsteps upstairs, I cringed. I stood up,
and walked Colleen to the kitchen, so she could sit down. I sat across from her, and
tapped my fingers on the metal table. “Babe” Colleen murmured, “You have to be with
me. I can’t do this alone. Hold my hand.” Her parents entered the kitchen, and I
couldn’t sit still. Her parents knew something was wrong, and the look I received from
Mr. Mosser was as cold as the metal table my hands were resting on. “What’s wrong
sweetheart?” Mrs. Mosser said with a concerned tone, “What happened?” I didn’t dare
look at her dad, he was eyeing me down. He hasn’t liked me ever since I got into a
fender bender on the way home from dinner a couple weeks ago and Colleen’s airbag
deployed, leaving a small burn on her arm. I could feel his piecing glare sear into the
side of my skull. He was a very large man, standing at six feet three inches tall, and
easily weighing at least 200 pounds. I was scared shitless. “Mom, I,” Colleen stumbled
on her words, “Well, a week and a half ago...” “You’re doing drugs aren’t you?” Her
dad’s voice bellowed and I could feel his penetrating stare was now focused on Colleen.
“No, that’s not it at all.” I said, “Colleen is not on drugs.” “Well then what the hell is
wrong son?” Mr. Mosser became noticeably impatient, “Tell me what you called us
down here for.” Colleen buried her head in her hands and started hysterically crying.
“What is wrong Jeremy?” He yelled, “Why is my daughter crying?” It was at that
moment I stopped calling him Mr. Mosser, and addressed him as “sir”. “Sir, about a
week and a half ago…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it, because once I said those
words, those three words, they would ruin my life. It’s funny how cliché three word
phrases are. I wish I would be telling them that “I love Colleen.” That’s a nice three
word phrase, maybe even, “I hate Colleen.” Oh well, not a big deal, I’m sure he would
have been happy if I was out of his daughters life after that car accident. But no, I have
to tell them, “Colleen is pregnant.” A sigh of relief came over me when Colleen took her
hands away from her face, wiped her tears away, and looked at her mom. “Mom,”
Colleen bravely continued, “Mom I’m pregnant!” It was at that moment when I felt like
peeing my pants would have been a good stress reliever. “You’re, you’re what?” Mrs.
Mosser said in disbelief. “I’m so sorry.” I said it as sincerely as I possible, but that
wasn’t enough to relieve her dad of the overtaking anger. He stopped leaning against the
stove, which was nearly adjacent to the table I was sitting on, and stood straight up. He
slammed his fist down on the marble counter so hard that the framed poem, “Tea for
Two.”, hanging on the wall came crashing down, shattering the frame. At that moment, I
thought that’s going to be what I look like after he shatters my face. I said, “I’m sorry,”
then I quickly stood up, and sprinted out the door. I honestly thought being killed by him
didn’t seem that farfetched, so I had no choice but to run. Not only did I run to my car,
but I sped home, threw some clothes into my backpack, called my brother Justin. “I need
to escape reality Just. I’ll explain when I get there.” “Okay, whatever you need to do.”
He responded, confused.
********
He opened the door and we went inside. “It’s late, why did you decide to come
here at two o’clock in the morning? No matter, you can stay in the spare bedroom at the
end of the hallway,” Justin said, as he took my backpack full of wadded up clothes and
set them aside on the couch near the door. “You really got yourself into one hell of a
mess,” he said as I walked back into the main living area of his condo. “Well, I’m sorry
Just, but I don’t think you can really criticize me given your lifestyle for the past 3 years.
I can’t say it’s the example Mom and Dad were looking for you to set.” My brother
Justin is 23, and after being put through many rehabs by my parents, he is still addicted to
drugs. “Yeah Jer, well, I can’t say Mom and Dad wanted you to go and get your
girlfriend pregnant either.” He said with a sarcastic tone. He walked over to the kitchen,
opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a beer out of one of the sliding drawers. “You want
one?” Justin asked. “A few would probably be good for you, clear your head, you have
some thinking to do.” “Thanks.” I said with a sigh. He walked over and sat down on the
couch next to me. “Justin, what do you think I should do?” “Well,” he said after opening
the beer by using the edge of the table to pop the top off, and handing it to me, “Where do
you want the rest of your life to go? You got into college. You got into a great college at
that, Northwestern. Do you want to sacrifice the rest of your future because you’re
girlfriend is going to have the baby?” “I don’t know, it’s pretty shitty luck that she’s a
Catholic.” I took a healthy sip of the New Castle Brown Ale, “She violates her religion
in the first place by having sex with me, and now she’s going to abide by her religion,
and she’s going to keep the baby. I just don’t understand it. I mean, I love the girl. But
in all honesty, I don’t love her enough to have a child with her, the idea is just absurd.
I’m 18 years old, I’m no where near being ready to raise a child.” “Yeah well life is
rough all around.” Justin said, “I don’t know what to tell you, but I think something can
help you relax for a little bit.” He reached for a piercing on the table, with some pot
already packed in it.” “I don’t smoke, you know that.” I told him with frustration. “I
don’t want to end up like you, no offense.” “None taken. But this is a time where it’s
necessary to try new things.” He continued, “Hell, you’ll be trying out being a father in a
short 9 months so, why not have fun now?” I picked up the piece and held it to my
mouth. I’ve never smoked weed before, but I’ve seen my brother do it countless times,
so I just followed by example, the great example he has set for me. I picked up the
lighter, lit it, and held it close to the weed. I inhaled. Coughing, I set both things down
on the table. “Having fun yet?” Justin asked, “You won’t understand what I’m talking
about until you take a few more hits. You’re new to this.”
Forty-five minutes later, after I drank six beers and smoked two bowls with
Justin, I was feeling like I’ve never felt before. It wasn’t anything I can really describe,
because that was the only time in my life I’ve ever smoked weed. But, it was in that
moment, that I realized what I should do.
As I stared up at the ceiling, the lights seemed to spin. Thinking to myself about
my future, and where my life would be if I were a father at 18 years old, I began to think
at first that it would go absolutely nowhere. No Northwestern? That would go over
really well. Yeah, right, like I will sacrifice my future to be a father when Colleen could
just get an abortion. If she doesn’t, she’s sacrificing her future as well. But, I also live
just outside Ithica, New York. I’m have been accepted to Cornell, which is another great
school, and I could go there if worst comes to worst. Who am I kidding. Cornell while
raising a child? More like the community college. But there’s no way in hell I’m
fathering a child and not being in her life. I knew how that worked, my father was the
same way. I couldn’t bear to have my child go through the same thing I’m experiencing.
I decided that I needed to sleep on this, and stumbled my way into my temporary
bedroom where I passed out.
I opened my eyes, and reached for my cell phone that I had plugged into the
charger last night before I fell asleep. It was the first time I checked my phone since the
confrontation with Colleen’s parents the previous day. To no surprise, I scrolled down
the missed alerts screen to find: eight text messages from Colleen, six calls from my
parents, and two texts from Colleen’s mom. “I’m not reading these.” I thought to myself
as I put my phone back down on the bedside table. I got up out of bed, took a shower,
and changed.
*******
The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity. “Please don’t pick up, please
don’t pick up” I repeated to myself as I cringed at every second that passed. “Hello?”
Colleen answered, “Jer, where the fuck have you been, I’ve called you over twenty times,
your cell phone has been off for the past three days. Where did you go?” “I’m sorry,” I
said with remorse, “I just couldn’t handle it, I went to my brothers’ condo outside of the
city for a few days.” “Are you kidding me? You don’t even have the courtesy of letting
me know where you were going? This is bullshit, I’ve been crying my eyes out for the
past three days, dealing with my parents, and you just escape to Justin’s condo.” “I’m
sorry! Okay, I had to clear my head, and I had to come to a decision. If you have this
baby,” I went on, “Then I want to be a part of raising it, it’s my child too. I know we’re
both far too young to raise a child together, for Christ’s sake we’re seniors in high school,
but you’re Catholic, and you’re going to respect your religion and keep the baby. I don’t
really have a choice, but I’m going to make the best of it.” I thought I was covering
serious ground with her, but seeing as she has been planning on keeping the baby the
whole time, she seemed to think I was being an ass. “You’re right, you’re going to help
me raise it, it’s half yours. Way to come to your senses Jer, that was a really tough
decision. What, were you going to just abandon me? Really?” I started, “No, I just…”
She lashed back, “You just what, were going to run away from your problems, that’s
really quite mature of you, honey.” “Stop being a bitch.” I said. “We both knew what
the risks were when we decided to have sex, and we were willing to take them. This was
neither of our faults, so stop acting like it. You were on birth control and we thought
nothing could happen. I’m going to go, but I’m home now, so if you want to stop by you
can. We need to talk anyway.” I hung up.
********
After a long nine months, it was finally time to have the baby. Despite the initial
reaction of Mr. Mosser, he admired my courage to stay with Colleen and raise the baby
together. My father was there, at the hospital with us. It was unusual of him to be a part
of anything in my life, besides paying the bills. To be honest it didn’t matter to me that
he was there anyway, because I had handled this issue by myself with no guidance from
him. As soon as she went into labor, I took her hand, and told her that everything would
be okay. She trusted me, and she trusted us. She abided by her Catholic beliefs, and had
the baby.
********
As I pulled up to my house, getting back from night school classes, I saw the
lights on and Colleen’s car was in the driveway. As I was walking inside, I could see the
dining room table was set for two, through the large glass window on my way to the front
door. As I entered the house, I was greeted by my beautiful seven month old baby girl,
Riley. She was sitting on the floor, playing with a rattle I had picked up on my way
home from night school a week ago. It smelled like a pot roast was cooking in the oven,
and I could hear the kettle boiling some hot water for our routine cup of tea which we had
every night when I got home from class around 8:30. I assumed this was also a special
occasion which I wasn’t aware of, because candles were lit, and Colleen set the table with
my mother’s china which was stored away under the island in the kitchen. I put my
backpack down, and said loudly, “Babe, this looks beautiful! How was your day?”
There was no response. I went into the kitchen, where I saw something hanging on the
wall above the dishwasher. It was the same poem, “Tea for Two”, broken frame and all,
that shattered in her kitchen when we told Mr. Mosser Colleen was pregnant. However,
this time, there was a note in the middle of the frame. It read, “Tea for two will soon be
new. Everything will be okay. Love, Colleen.” As I took the post it note off the
shattered frame, an loud, echoing thud came from the room above me, and my bones
quivered. Why? Why would she be upstairs in the bathroom above the kitchen? It was
at that moment I understood the occasion, I understood her rhyming note. It was just
Riley and I having dinner tonight, it will only be Riley and I having dinner from now on.
The table is set to have tea for two.
Joey Maysky
The High Road
Here are two important lessons I learned in rehab. One: sometimes one needs to
hit rock bottom before climbing upward. Two: you're only as sick as your secrets. These
were two things I had to learn before I lost Allison. For so long, she was just my manager
and my publicist while I performed around the Sunset strip in a booze and coke-fueled
haze. Little did I know what would unfold after I finally woke up out of my own selfabsorbed abyss of drugs.
This story provides closure to a self-destructive chapter of my life, where I had all
I could ever want in the world, took it for granted, and had it taken away from me the
moment I found clarity. I want to make something productive now that I've found some
sense of peace. My name is Rob Marx. I am a musician and an addict.
*
I grew up in south Jersey, the armpit of the country. I'd always done aboveaverage work in high school, but I always felt more at home in social settings. I felt most
at home playing gigs in coffee shops and bars. Yes, in the eighties they were a little bit
looser about teenagers performing in bars. When I developed a local following around
south Jersey, Philly, and even New York City, I loved talking to people who loved my
simple songs with just my voice and six strings; sometimes, I'd even get a little moody
and go to the keys. Regardless of my instrument of choice, I felt no higher than when I
could pour my heart to the crowd on stage. At least, that's what I realize now gave me the
best high. Back then, I had some chemical assistance. I tasted alcohol first when I was 15,
and started coke by 19. It was never anything regular though, and I never believed my life
would spiral; on the contrary, I thought I was in the best position to take over the world.
I went to two years of community college for liberal arts before I got sick of the
tight structure of school and bitter cold winters of the east coast. I decided to take a risk
by going to Los Angeles with my 1969 Camaro, a tank of gas, about five hundred dollars
to my name, and a six-pack of Budweiser in 1994. I arrived in the first week of October,
on my twenty-first birthday. I was convinced I could make it playing gigs on the Sunset
strip as so many starry-eyed performers have, playing what musicians fondly call "the
circuit," three clubs right near each other on the same mile long road: The Troubadour,
The Roxy, and The Whiskey a-Go Go. God bless these clubs for having staying power to
this day as breeding grounds for burgeoning, young musical talent. I was lucky enough to
find a cheap studio apartment just off the strip, right across the street from a liquor store.
I would stock my cabinets there weekly.
With how my life went downhill after my addictions began to slowly consume
me, it must have only been an early blessing that the crowds received me so well. Within
a week of living in Los Angeles, I had booked three shows at the milestones of the week:
Monday at the Whiskey, Wednesday at the Troubadour, and Friday at the Roxy. This was
strategic: the Whiskey isn't named for nothing; people love to drink there, so I figured I'd
go there on a slow night so I didn't have to deal with too many drunk assholes booing me.
The music purists love the Troubadour, and I always felt that I performed my best
technically, even in school, in the middle of the week. I wanted more than anything,
however, to get the Roxy on the weekend: the young adults and teenagers, fake ID's in
tow, all want to catch some good music in Hollywood on a Friday night. Perfect
opportunity to connect with fans close to my age.
That first week of shows was probably the best week of my life. Right away, I
was getting fans who'd follow me for my entire career, without the pressure of making
industry personnel happy. These dedicated fans not only appreciated my music and style
at face value, but I'd see them for weeks to come. They were also the most fun to party
with after shows; the Roxy's bar, On the Rox, was a mainstay. Hard liquor would be
flowing, laughs and songs would be shared, and blow would be traded, paid for, and
snorted. Alcohol and cocaine certainly made me feel respectively loose and stimulated
when taken separately, but the combination of them produced a euphoria unlike any
other. My pursuit of this feeling of invincibility would soon mix a little too much with
my performance on stage, but that's a little further down the road.
After steadily performing the circuit, among other L.A. venues, it appeared that
the heavy-hitters in the music industry were getting word of my shows and rapidly
growing L.A. fan base. Yes! There were plenty of guys in suits slowly sipping Jack
Daniels while I performed, taking no interest in their offers, but one Friday night I saw
one who looked different. Stunningly different. Blonde hair, blue eyes, in a skinny black
cocktail dress with a glass of champagne. She was standing in the back of the Roxy,
positioned in a perfect little gap in the crowd. I swear, it seemed like a scene out of a
movie. Stunning as she was, I could tell she meant business.
I finished my set and did my rounds with my local followers. After most of them had
begun to clear away, which at the very least an hour after my set had finished, the blonde
bombshell of business approached me:
"Excuse me, Rob Marx?" she said in a breezy, west coast tone.
"Yes, hi. I saw you in the crowd. Sorry to keep you waiting. You look amazing." I
was speaking rapidly, like my thirteen-year-old self seeing a pretty girl for the first time.
One that had actually developed breasts. And, my lord, did they look fantastic.
"Hi. My name is Allison Bagliano. I'm a junior publicist at BFA talent agency.
My father, Michael Bagliano, is the B in BFA. Perhaps you've heard of him?" she said
with a cute, small grin. I miss that grin.
"Um, no, sorry. I'm a recent transplant from New Jersey."
"Oh, ok. Well, we're the second largest talent agency in the L.A. area. We like to
represent up-and-coming talent in music, film, fashion-- everything. Word spreads like
wildfire in Los Angeles, and after seeing what I just saw tonight I'd like to manage you
and be your publicist."
"Really? I mean, what can you do for me?" In my early twenties, I had never
heard the words "manager" and "publicist" before. Nowadays, you get laughed at if you
don't know what they are on your first audition with a label.
"Basically, as your manager, I give you a bit of help with booking and auditioning
for labels. As your publicist, I'd help to make sure you kept a good public image as well
as received press attention."
Labels? Press attention? This hot chick thinks I'm ready for that? I was so taken
aback by her beauty and her proposition that I was at a loss for words.
"I know this is a lot to take in, especially when we're both tipsy at one of the
hottest clubs on Sunset Boulevard. Here's my card. Call me and we can arrange a meeting
at the BFA building. It was awesome to meet you, Rob. I look forward to hearing from
you."
With that, she took her last sip of champagne and clacked out of the Roxy in her
six-inch high stilettos, with the confidence of a lioness. I always admired that confidence
and determination in Allison. It was one thing that still shone through even when I was at
my wackiest on coke. I turned toward the stage, started packing my gear, and headed
home.
*
I had only been working for my father three or four months when I first went to
see Rob at the Roxy. It was one of the first times my dad had asked me to go scouting. I
wanted to seem as professional as I possibly could, especially when going to see a male
musician. Though I was single, and very open to a relationship at the time, I knew the
natural law of working in corporate America: never mix business with pleasure.
Nonetheless, I decided to order a glass of champagne to feel a little more comfortable.
That black pencil skirt and those matching six-inch heels weren't doing me any favors in
the comfort department, after all.
My eyes and ears were certainly pleased throughout Rob's set. We had a
conversation about me representing him at the agency to manage him and do his PR work
after the show. We were both pretty drunk, though he more than I. I still wanted to
represent him as a professional, but I could feel a spark between us. There was something
there, and I wanted to know more about the new, young transplant from south Jersey. I
eventually did, perhaps more than I could handle.
Rob called me on Monday to arrange our meeting. Clearly, he was hung over. I
could tell by his weakened voice and not quite so jovial tone and attitude. I would
eventually get used to this. That, and the opposite, loud laughing and off-color jokes
when he got hammered. We arranged our meeting for Wednesday. He told me something
about Wednesday always being his best day for professionalism. Whatever, it was my
only day open.
*
I was so hung over the day I called Allison to arrange our first meeting at BFA.
She told me she had a Wednesday morning open. Wednesday, you never fail to be the
best day to get my responsibilities fulfilled. We drew up a contract that day, saying her
summary of her responsibilities to me as manager and publicist in about four extra pages
of legal jargon. Another four or five discussed how I would pay Allison. We arranged it
comfortably so as I made more money, her salary would steadily increase. She, and her
father, were sensitive to the fact that I was an independent, unsigned artist doing selfbooking in mostly dives and rock clubs. Michael, for a business man in the entertainment
industry, was an incredibly laid-back and accepting type of guy. We’d go out for drinks
on Saturday nights. No father in south Jersey would ever approve of me walking up to
their doorstep with my mane of hair, jeans, and rocker tees. He would have been an
amazing father-in-law.
By my twenty-second birthday, my one-year anniversary of living in Los
Angeles, I was playing shows five nights a week at various venues. The circuit venues
still remained my favorites. I also had auditioned for labels, but none seemed promising.
Eventually, I got so comfortable with the crowds that I stopped waiting until after the
shows to start knocking back the bottles. I’d have something hard: scotch, Jack Daniels
whiskey, or a favorite on the west coast, José Cuervo tequila, in front of my amp every
night, taking a swig between every song. I also would do a line before every show, and
then do more after I got home to help me stay awake all night to keep writing new
material. The crowds would go crazy every time I introduced a new song. That was my
excuse at the time.
These hard habits came back to bite me in the ass one night. I had done my usual
single line, but it sped my brain so much that I downed about a fifth of Jack to slow me
down. I was tanked already walking on stage. I started my first song and couldn’t even
think straight enough to remember my own lyrics. This was the first time a Roxy crowd
had ever booed me. It was also the first and only time I’d ever screamed “Fuck you all!”
to a crowd. No sooner did I say that did the room , and then blackness. I had felt a large
thump as the back of my head hit the Roxy stage.
*
One night changed the course of things for me and Rob, both for the better and for
the worse. He got really drunk one night at the Roxy and passed out on stage, falling
backwards. My father and I were both there. We immediately called 911, and paramedics
rushed in with a gurney to take him to Cedars-Sinai Medical Hospital in Beverly Hills. I
rode with him in the ambulance while my father followed us in our company black
Mercedes. Rob remained unconscious until we had gotten him through triage and into a
room in the E.R. My father waited in the lobby. Rob seemed happy to see me in the
room.
“Hey, Allison,” he said, waking up slowly. He was under heavy pain medication,
plus other drugs to negate the alcohol and cocaine.
“Hey, Rob. You took a hard fall. How are you feeling?”
“Good, Allison. Hey, can you do me a favor? I need you to run somewhere for
me.”
“Rob, I really think I should stay here with you. Rob, I care about you a lot. Even
more than just as your manager and publicist. I’ve always though you were a remarkable
and attractive soul since the first night we met at the Roxy. I love you, Rob.” Did all of
that just come out of my mouth? Did my wall of public relations-trained defensiveness
suddenly shatter?
“Aw, gee Allison. Come here.” He could barely move his arms because he was in
so much pain, but he brought me to the bed and hugged me. Then, we engaged in the
most passionate kiss I had ever felt from a man.
“Allison, I really need you to do me this favor. It’s important.”
“What is it Rob?”
“Here’s twenty bucks. I was supposed to meet a couple of guys on Cahuenga after
the show to pick up a few grams of blow. Can you run and grab it for me?”
I wanted to freak out and tell him no: that my father was in the lobby, that I never
drove this late at night, that I had never dealt with drug dealers before, and that I wasn’t
going to get nabbed on possession for him. But, the passion I had felt for him after
tonight was so intense that I agreed. Just as I stepped out of the room, my father
approached me. He seemed stern, but compassionate.
“Allison, I’ve been thinking about tonight’s events. I love Rob, and I know you
do too, but I think it’s best for the company that we drop him.”
I was shocked. “Dad, are you serious? This is one isolated incident. Rob is one of our
most promising clients.”
“Allison, your job is to keep Rob’s image and the company’s image clean. Rob is
doing the worst things he can do for BFA’s image and his own right now. This is what
the public relations industry is about.”
“I know, Dad, but listen, I have to run down the street to get Rob some good food.
This hospital food sucks. Please keep an eye on him.”
Without a word, he nodded and let me go.
Rob had given me the intersection to meet the guys. He’d also called them on my
BlackBerry to let them know I was coming. He told me to do whatever they said; he
needed this blow. When I met them, I introduced myself and handed over the money.
One had the vial of coke, but the other stopped him.
“Well, pretty lady, you’re Rob’s girl , huh? You’re damn fine. You wanna fuck?
Rob doesn’t get this unless you do.”
Just like when accepting to this favor for Rob, a million thoughts were running
through my head; that this was never the plan, that I wouldn’t have sex with a random
man for anything, etc. But, I remembered what Rob said, and I loved him to much to fail
him, so I agreed. I was already on the pill for my period, so I didn’t ask him to use a
condom. After we finished, I took the coke and drove back to Cedars-Sinai.
For months after Rob recovered, he stayed with BFA because my father took my
word. I started getting random colds and fevers, and started bleeding vaginally even when
I wasn’t on my period. I didn’t tell anyone though, nor did I think anything of it, until
one day I got nervous and went to a clinic for a test.
*
After my accident at the Roxy, I recovered rather quickly. Allison gave me my
coke after I left Cedars-Sinai. She also warned me that as much as Michael respected me,
he wanted to drop me due to this incident, and that I should get help. I shrugged it off. I
had done coke and alcohol for several years at this point and was still here, wasn’t I? She
remained silent until we arrived for that month’s routine meeting at BFA. Nothing
unusual, just updates on where I was headed.
Within six months, we had finally found a label whose offers looked promising.
During that time, however, Allison had been getting sick a lot. She blamed it on not
eating well enough and exercising too little. She came over to my house the evening
before we were supposed to go and sign the contracts to discuss last minute things and
have a small celebration. We both had been drinking, and she had asked to go to the
bathroom. It was fifteen minutes before I went in and saw her in a streak of blood on my
bathroom floor, passed out.
I called 911 and had her on a gurney out of my apartment with oxygen hooked up.
I imagine this was a similar experience for her at the Roxy. I was terrified. This was a girl
I loved! I called Michael and he rushed to meet us at Cedars. Like me, she regained
consciousness in an emergency room area. Before they had even run tests, she told me
what was going on. Michael was waiting in the lobby.
“Rob, I’m HIV positive. I got tests about a month ago after all my random
illnesses, and I had noticed I was bleeding vaginally. Those drug dealers made me have
sex with one of them the night you had me pick up your coke. I haven’t been taking AZT
or telling anyone because I had so much work and couldn’t take the time off to get better.
I knew I‘d never be cured anyway.”
“What? Allison, are you serious? You have AIDS? From fucking my drug dealer?
Work can wait, health is more important!” I screamed in the E.R. With this, I began to
cry uncontrollably. An action and habit of mine was killing the woman I loved. I, too,
was putting the rock star life ahead of my health. This was my rock bottom. Allison and I
were as sick as our secrets. I never signed my contracts with the label.
Allison only stayed in Cedars for about another two weeks before she died.
Michael and I were in visiting her on a daily basis. After her service, I had told Michael
to feel free to let me out of my contract because I was going to Florida to get help. I
needed some time away from L.A., where I had destroyed my life and Allison’s. He said
he couldn’t though. He loved me, was grateful that I had found help, and keeping me
around would be the best thing he could do in Allison’s memory. He would hold all plans
for my career until I returned from my 90-day treatment program.
I don’t go a day without thinking of Allison. She inspires everything that I do. I
haven’t been too stable emotionally, which is a huge temptation to go back to drugs and
alcohol, but I’ve made it a year to this day. Michael has let me stay in his house in
Beverly Hills. I really need him, as professional as we are, on some hard days. I’m
releasing my debut album tomorrow. The music is the one thing that balances everything.
I thought about leaving after I had gotten clean, but I realized I was given a second
chance to fulfill my dream, so I should take it, and I did. The transplant from south Jersey
has taken the high road. I leave now to go rehearse with my long-awaited touring band.
We leave in June.
Lindsay Shima
Title?
“I met a man on one of the internet personals sites. We'll call him Dick, which is
not his real name, but probably should be.” This was Marybeth’s fifth visit with Dr.
Costalas, and would certainly be far from her last. “So, Dick and I emailed for a while,
discovered we had some things in common and lived within just a few miles of each
other. Email led to phone conversations, and yeah I’ll admit, Dick tended to dominate
any and all conversations. That’s typically not a trait I like in a guy, but I thought to
myself, ‘Hey, he's probably just nervous and trying to impress. He'll quiet down a little as
we get to know each other.’ Assumptions, assumptions, that’s what always comes back to
bite me in the ass.”
She looked around restlessly at the white ceilings, bookcases, gray-toned carpet;
her eyes jumped from location to location, unable to focus on any one thing. She took a
deep breath, “Dick and I eventually decided to meet in person. During dinner and afterdinner drinks, he spoke at a volume that I swore was two notches away from making my
eardrums explode. He talked about his ex-girlfriend, ex-wives, his successful accounting
practice, his achievements, his prowess at anything and everything...including sex... I
swear he was talking so fast it appeared that he didn’t even draw breath between words.”
Pausing for just a moment, she realized she was mimicking the way Dick had spoken to
her, quickly, loudly, with growing enthusiasm. For as much as she hated everything about
Dick, she did nothing about the parallel in speech she had just noticed. After all, this was
her time to rant and rave about anything and everything going wrong in her life. She
wasn’t paying this guy 50 bucks an hour to have him sit there and listen to bullshit;
Marybeth did not try to keep her usual composure, she held nothing back. “He even told
me he was a narcissist, as though that were an achievement to be proud of in itself! He
never once asked a single question about me or my life. At the end of the date, he
suggested we get together for dinner the next evening, and in an effort to give him a
second chance, I agreed. The next day came and went - with not a single word from him.
Not a single fucking word! So here I am trying to give this loser another chance, and he
doesn’t even have the courtesy to call and tell me he wasn’t going to make it?!” The vein
above her overly made-up right eye began to surface, a clear indication of the anger that
pulsed through her thin frame. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled until she felt her blood
pressure drop back down to a healthy rate. “You see where I’m coming from, don’t you
doctor? Men are such raging idiots. No respect, none at all.” Doctor Costalas gave her an
sympathetic nod, yet refrained from chiming in just yet. Knowing his client’s life as well
as he did, he knew the story was far from over.
“So anyway, a week went by and I decided he had just lost interest, and I was by
no means heartbroken.” Lie. “A couple weeks later, at three o’clock in the freaking
morning, my cell phone rings at least six times in a row! I think to myself ‘Who the
hell’s calling me at this hour? Six times in a row? It must be something important.’
Needless to say, I check my voicemail. So there I am all worried and shit that somethings
wrong with say, a family member, until I listen to the voicemail. It was a drunken, slurred
message, not saying who it was but begging me to call! My Caller ID showed me this
charming message was from Dick. Pissed off that I got all shook up for nothing, I, of
course, ignored it and did not ever intend to call the asshole back.” She looked over at Dr.
Costalas just to make sure he was still paying attention. He was, or at least, appeared to
be.
“Another few days go by, and then there was another voicemail, this time sober,
apologizing for the last voicemail and suggesting we get together. An email followed the
voicemail. It was so strange, both messages were so sweet they just about made my heart
melt. It didn’t even sound like the same man. Honestly, it didn’t. Dick told me he was so
sorry about everything, and claimed that I’m one of the most beautiful women he’d ever
been out with in his life. I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for compliments. And what a persistent
fella Dick was, he really made me feel like he missed me and wanted to see me again. ‘E’
for effort, Dick. So I gave Dick yet another chance.”
“So the next date comes, I hear my doorbell ring, I open the door, and wouldn’t
you know he hands me a bouquet of four beautiful roses. I am thrilled and thank him for
being so thoughtful and sweet. Now I'm thinking maybe he's an okay guy! Until he
explains that it was the twentieth anniversary of a lady friend of his, and when he went to
the florist with the intention of buying twenty roses for her, the florist advised that buying
two dozen roses would be cheaper. He had four left over. Lucky me! Dick again
dominates the conversation in a voice so loud I thought it was going to shatter the
restaurant's windows. Can you imagine if that were to actually have happened?! But
anyway, despite the slower incident and Dick’s vociferous nature, we both seem to be
having an okay time. Or at least, neither of us were having an awful time. BUT, when the
waitress arrives with the check for the pre-dinner cocktails, Dick turns to me and says,
‘Would you prefer to pay for the drinks, or for dinner?’ The waitress informs Dick that if
he was a gentleman, he would pay for both. I opt to pay for the drinks and Dick accepts!”
Incensed, Marybeth threw her hands up in the air, making a gesture that screamed, “what
the hell?!”
“Honestly Doc, I need your professional opinion. What do you think of a guy that
admits the flowers he brought weren’t even intended for me, then doesn’t offer to pay for
the lady on one of their first dates? Would you have ever done that to your wife when you
were first going out with her?” Doctor Costalas took off his glasses and crossed his
bulky legs, as if he were deep in thought about the question at hand. This was the first
time he had been given the chance to speak in this hour and a half therapy session, and he
wanted to make the most of it.
“Well Marybeth, I wouldn’t be too hard on the man. It was at a thoughtful gesture
for him to have brought the remaining flowers to you, regardless of the reason. He could
have easily left them at his house, thrown them away, given them to his mother. The
possibilities are countless, but the fact is, he brought them to you! Additionally, females
over the past few decades have forced themselves into a double standard. Women expect
to be treated equally as men, yet still wish to be wined and dined. Some men have
remained true to tradition, picking a lady up from her house, taking her out to a nice
restaurant, handling the bill, doing everything in his power to make the girl as
comfortable as possible. Studies have shown that others, on the contrary choose to break
the mold and have created their own style of dating. Women wish to be treated as equals,
thus making it more acceptable for them to take care of themselves than in previous
times. For instance, it may now be more acceptable for a woman to drive themselves to
the location of the date, pick up their half of the bill....”
“Dr. C with all due respect, how are you married?!”
“Ah Marybeth, now you see this may be your problem. You expect too much
from people you hardly know, then are left with feelings of disappointment when they do
not meet your standards, or they do not carry out the actions you expect of them.”
“Ugh, I don’t know. Maybe. But really, you would think men in there 30s and 40s
would have figured out by now the do’s and don’ts of proper dating etiquette. Yeah,
that’s what you would think!” Marybeth gazed down at her shiny black stilettos, an
accessory she felt made her look and feel instantly sexier in her midlife. She sighed,
opened her mirrored compact and reapplied the red lipstick that had consequently worn
off from the past hours rant.
Leaving the office, Marybeth heads home thinking about what Dr. Costalas said.
Maybe he was right, maybe she did expect too much from guys. Plus, these weren’t just
guys she had met out somewhere, these were men she met online, men that were all just
as down-ridden and desperate as she was. Later that night, Marybeth sat across from her
small TV screen, watching re-runs of “The Batchelor.” Why couldn’t a guy like that
show up at her doorstep and whisk her away? Mindlessly swirling her Easy Mac around
with a plastic fork, lost in a romantic day dream, Marybeth nearly had a heart attack when
the phone rang. No one has luck like mine, really, no one does. It was her best friend,
Ava, on the other line.
A few minutes into the conversation, Marybeth began, “I must have inherited the
curse of an empty love-life from my mother. She was equally as ill-fated when it came to
men. I mean, she did get knocked up, married, then divorced from my dad. For
Chrissake we don’t even speak to him or his entire side of the family!”
“Babe, you gotta snap out of it. That’s part of the reason I called. You really need
to stop with this online dating thing. It’s pathetic.” This was one of the reasons Marybeth
loved Ava so much. Her tough love and brutal honesty always pulled Marybeth back to
reality in times she needed it most. “I actually have called you with some semblance of
exciting news...” There was a long pause. “I’m setting you up on a blind date.”
“What?!” Marybeth exclaimed. “A blind date Ava, I really don’t know about
this... I mean, I don’t know anything about the guy!”j
“Ok so you’re telling me you’ll go out with 18 men you read about on the
internet, but you won’t trust your best friend to set you up on one harmless date. What
have you got to lose? I mean, the guys handsome, intelligent, and half Irish, half Italian
just like you!”
“Umm, alright I guess I’ll go. Tell me a little more about him,” Marybeth
demanded.
“Well, his name is David. He’s from this area and just graduated from MedSchool at Pitt. He’s going to be a doctor Marybeth! Make the most of this opportunity.”
On that note, Marybeth straightened up her posture, and a huge smile spread across her
narrow face.
The following Friday night quickly approached. David picked Marybeth up at her
house. Opening the door with a bit of apprehension, she was immediately struck by his
attractiveness. Physically, he had everything she looked for in a man. Tall, fit, brown
hair, blue eyes, nice smile. “Hey, I’m David,” he said with a sly smile. Marybeth was
dumbfounded, no words came out of her mouth. “Are you all set?” She scoured her brain
for the words to say back but couldn’t manage to say anything back. She merely nodded
and they were on their way.
Once in the car and David’s beautiful face was no longer in plain sight, Marybeth
loosened up. The conversation flowed so freely, one would swear they had known each
other for years. By the time dinner rolled around, they were already talking about
personal matters such as their dreams for the future and their families. Marybeth felt a
strong connection and sense of empathy towards him when he opened up about his
family. About how his father had left him and his mother when David was only in high
school. Marybeth thought about her own father, and in her head pictured the only
photograph of her with him when she was a baby. The night progressed and before she
knew it, she was back in his apartment. Impressed, she looked around his lavish place. It
was so clean and well decorated, but not in a way that screamed “I’m gay!” Turning on
the TV, David and Marybeth laid on his comfortable couch together. Ironically, The
Bachelor was on again. In this episode, the Bachelor was faced with his final rose
ceremony. When he chose the woman to be his fiancee, he leaned down to kiss her. “Aw,
that’s so cute.” Marybeth said with a dreamy smile. David took notice and, mimicking
the man on The Bachelor, leaned in to do the same. Things heated up and they wound up
in his bedroom.
Waking up the next morning, she looks around his room. Looking closely at a
picture on his night stand, it is David with an older man holding a large fish on a fishing
rod. Marybeth thinks she recognized the older man in the picture. “Oh my God. Oh my
God!!” With the sound of Marybeth’s frantic voice, David instantly opens his eyes and
asks her what is wrong. “David, who is that?!”
“Um, that’s my dad. Why?” David responds, intensely confused.
“Oh my God, I have to go. I’m so sorry David. I really need to be going now. I,
uh, forgot I had this, um, meeting to go to. My boss will kill me. Ah shit look its already
10 o’clock!” David pulls her close to his chest.
“Relax, babe. It’s Saturday morning! No one schedules meetings for Saturday.”
Marybeth pushes him away with disgust.
“You don’t understand. Really, you don’t. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. This
never happened!” Marybeth quickly re-dresses and runs out of the apartment without
another word. A few weeks later, David gets a letter in the mail from Marybeth. Ripping
open the envelop, he sees a picture of his father with a little girl. The back of the photo
read, “This is why we can’t be together.”
Chris Strohm
Reincarnation of a Lovebird
"Why hadn't he answered her call?” Adrian thought as he lay in bed, divided in what
he knew and what he now envisaged of her. Another late night a woman keeps him up.
The phone rings. A hazy visage of the clock's 2 a.m. rouge bores into Adrian’s
narrowed eyes as he focuses them. He awaits its second drone - no more, no less - to
appear not awake for whom lay beside him, breathing that innocence he had forgotten as
an adult; to appear not awake for whomever may receive him on the other end. His voice,
dry with the taste of the cigarettes he had smoked before bed, deceived his anticipation of
her call, cracking the confused whisper of a sleeper into the receiver.
“Hello?”
A woman is on the other side. Quiet. Distant. “It’s Deidra.”
He exhales liberally; a deep and noticeable breath, "Yes?"
“I called earlier, but..."
A clothing pin feels wedged beneath his rib cage - he knows she had been crying. Her
voice seemed to crescendo with an immediacy to explain herself, clearly desperate to
hear his.
"I know." he interjects, disguising a sentimental choke, tinged with a sadism in
deceiving the lie that consoled him earlier – Deidra wouldn’t call. Her breathing grows
silent, and then as if it never fazed her, Deidra recovers.
"I apologize for calling again so late, it’s just that...,” broken, she swallows a deep,
hollow imitation of saliva, unsure of the soliloquy that teases her mind, rehearsed just
seconds prior to the call, “...that I need you right now. I’ve had a horrible night, and I just
need to see someone in person." There’s a silence and then the voice adds I'm alone as
the final persuasion. Adrian knows what this means with her sadly. He stretches, pushing
the remaining covers off the end of the bed. A yawn escapes him and his eyes return to
the clock.
“Sure,” Adrian says passively into the distance between them as he reaches for his
glasses on the nightstand, turning then to kiss the naked shoulder blade of the woman
without a face lying in his bed. He lights his last cigarette, vaguely removed by the irony
of that quiet, early morning before her call. He rises from bed and paces over vocal wood
out onto the balcony of his apartment to hear her last words without disturbing his wife,
their conversation having already tasted transparent to him - it had before it even began.
*
*
*
Deidra lives in room 13 on the thirteenth floor of an apartment complex located on
Thirteenth and some boulevard Adrian never needed to know. Her weakness for things
superstitious had forever peeved him, hence the coffee stain of a memory. He laughed to
himself at the convenience her Bohemian touch has made for him as she buzzed him in
from the veranda, abstracting her nameless residency from a mindless twenty minute ride
while listening to some Jazz in his dying Volkswagen. Toronto's morning air, pure with a
light snow, bite at his naked throat.
Classical music dies just seconds after Adrian’s knock. Deidra opens the door to her
apartment, dressed in a thin black wrap and her underwear; an intentionally natural
fashion Adrian remembered about her, something beautiful by being so. Her lucid
silhouette, defined by the ambient lights of her room, contrasted against the noir void of
an open window behind her; opened to the night of the world as her audience, and her
apartment, its marvelously dramatic scene.
In a neurotic poise, a sobering red about her solemn eyes and nose reveal
themselves, nearly veiled behind her thick, dark hair. Adrian assumed these to be the
infamous tonic of medication, drugs and her tissues, appearing even to sob themselves as
she holds them in her small, flower of a hand. Greeted with a faint "Hello, Adrian. Please,
come in" and cold social kisses on either cheek, Adrian walks in, handing his coat over
for her to hang, one hand in the pajamas he wears up with clothing pins - he just never
had the heart to throw something so suited for him away, nor the skill to mend them once
they were torn.
Her apartment exposes a painful nostalgia, one that is seemingly absent in Deidra’s
composed face. Newspapers, magazines, books and film reels of past lives long dead are
strewn about the floor in small piles of nothingness with no apparent design in mind,
while myriad photographs and paintings are either off-centered or, if of her husband or
her pregnancy, leaning face against the burgundy wall in a kind of torturous limbo upon
the cold, apathetic floor - neither hung nor trashed.
"I'm making tea." she whimpers softly, wiping the salty stains of lachrymose from
her eyes. "Would you care for some?"
He waits a moment to respond, acclimating, taking her newness in. "If you're willing."
"Please, Adrian." Her lips purse with her accent, a nonchalance that is exclusive to
her native Czech tongue. "You think I'd have you now, in my apartment, and not be
hospitable? Calling you at such an early hour?" That would be cruel, no? Please, get the
hell out."
He'd forgotten how sarcastic she was capable of being in spite of her authentic person; a
trait he had not known in her husband. It salvaged lost mood, reminisces. Adrian smiles.
"Lemon with my tea, please" he asserts, filling the tired silence that grows between
their faces. "Cinnamon as well, if you have it."
She nods, turning to say with a gradual rise in her voice as she walks into the
kitchen, "With black tea love, there's no other way."
Adrian consoles her attempt at normalcy with a posh laugh through his nose, hating
deeply the ritualized etiquette of dancing around the issue with her.
*
*
*
Years had separated Adrian from that day at Sundance in 1969 when he'd met an
amateur cinematographer from New York, and his ashy eyed, naturally radiant woman
with a pen in her teeth, who would soon become his wife. It pained Adrian that it seemed
like days since then; his memories were still real to him, a part of him, not lost to the
amnesia of a distant past.
Deidra and the cinematographer had come to see the independent film of a
prestigious director they'd known personally while living in New York, whereas Adrian,
although never to confess it, had come to be cultured and impress the woman he was with
at the time. The name and face of the woman Adrian had brought escaped him, as did
Deidra's husband's, and he wanted to punish himself for that unkempt drawer in the attic
of his memory with the cancer of a cigarette.
"Deidra, you smoke, right?"
Seated next to Deidra in the theater, Adrian nevertheless remembers listening to her
future husband more so than she. He would lower his head with a suave yet eccentric
motion to remove his wide, dark-rimmed glasses, and hiss to Adrian, as though a perfect
stranger, what kind of man the director was; a proponent that he had pronounced most
crucial while he played with the vain beard that ravaged his long, narcissistic face. The
deconstruction that followed was a catatonic blur for Adrian, no matter how interesting
Adrian may have feigned it to be at the time. It was the woman who wore no make-up,
the sporadic sounds of her aggressive ink pen to a newspaper, the way she bit her lip as
she wrote, the caustic aroma of cigarettes in her clothes and her hair covering one eye
that had survived as the impressions of that long, pretentious day. Deidra, who wore no
other face then her own in a theater suffocating in them.
"On the dresser with the incense, Adrian." Deidra instructs.
To any non-smoker her telepathy would have seemed unreal, but to another smoker
who shares that urge, Adrian's question was a highly precise one that could be answered
with its intention. Adrian rose to retrieve the instruments that would ease their morning
into its maturity, saying sincerely in a breathy voice as he noticed spilled vials of
Wellbutrin and Clozapine where her cigarettes were placed hypnotically, "Have you
written anything personal since the accident?" The clock flashes a static midnight. 29
messages read on her voice-mail. He didn't hear Deidra’s sigh, which was her response,
though deep as it was. It was lost in a hostile message from her step-mother reminding
Deidra about her last court appearance on Tuesday and a escalating aggravation in the
sounds of teacups being sought in a cupboard.
"No, novellas? No poetic vignettes?" Adrian continues to say as a distraction from
the call.
"No" she says dismissively, recovering her nerves to say, "just surviving as a
journalist now. It's been a year. And I do not intend resuming it. I've sold out."
Adrian’s impulse is to say that writing about him, writing about the child; finally
forgiving herself for what she had done would be cathartic. Therapeutic. But he decides
to say nothing. On his way to the kitchen, Adrian snatches an ashtray up from her coffee
table - its wild aesthetics deceive the weight and the depth of its ash well, filled with a sea
of white paper and ash to its brim. The tea pot begins its climactic cry.
*
*
*
Her pose is a teasing invitation as Adrian, hazed with fatigue, waltzes in the room.
Deidra leans forward over the cool granite counter where the black liquid brews
voluptuous billows of steam. Her eyes caste downward in introspection, her teeth clench
about her bottom lip. The thin, dry skin of her hands and wrists in leaning are bruised red
with an intentionally focused and demented hate, bending so far as to seem near tearing.
Her naked legs shift her weight as she hums a song, swaying her hips hypnotically to a
liberal rhythm her drugs have induced, making the lower flesh of her ass, a subtle rise yet
feminine curve, peek through the drapery of her sarong. Deidra, lifted from her trance,
moves to the spice cabinet to fetch the Cinnamon and the window sill for the lemon.
As Deidra slices thin wavers of lemon into their tea, Adrian approaches the window
to light a much deserved cigarette. Its smoke cascades over his lungs like the very first try
at air right after surfacing from a long suffocating dare underwater. It is heightening, and
Adrian grows impatient. He nears her, the calming nicotine of the cigarette speaks for
him as his hands scathe her arms, “Here, let me light you." The scent of her hair is
flowery, but sour. She says nothing, taking the cigarette from his hand beside her to her
lips instinctively, just like the thousands before. Except they both knew it wasn't.
"There's something you want to tell me." Adrian insists, allowing his cigarette to
burn away in waiting. "Just say it."
Deidra takes a drag from her cigarette and then turns to meet his gaze, her back against
the cold counter and cigarette poised at eye level in the cocked, feminine fashion.
"Let's have our tea.” she deflects, pursing her lips as she tastes his tea, her arms
close to her chest.
A darkened rouge impression developing fresh on the filter of her cigarette ensnares
Adrian’s eye as she extinguishes it with a few gentle stabs in the deep ashtray, jagged
with the white tips of past anxieties. She wears lipstick tonight. Even mascara.
*
*
*
All there is is tension now. Adrian becomes impossibly possessed with a want to
clean her face, to save her from the torture she tries to cover up, to be a man and provide
for her, to do what he knows neither her husband could satisfy nor psychiatric medicine
could appease. He could think of nothing else more relevant, more right, than to hold her,
wipe the mascara from her eyes and kiss what lay beneath.
*
*
*
She receives him. Her lips are moist, her kisses violent, tasting of black tea and her
last cigarette; their varnish, a fleshy gloss. Adrian closes his eyes and lets the eye of his
hands see her figure. He holds her close in a rough, passionate embrace; one hand
caressing her cheek, the other about the small of her back, the warmth of her breasts
enveloped in his. They stagger in nature's exotic dance, Deidra spilling tea as they go,
until upon a piano next to that open window, its curtains flutter in the wind. Adrian lifts
her onto the piano in one swift and sudden lift; their bodies grace a few of its keys.
Deidra's bare legs now surround his waist like a human vice, his jolts pushing her sarong
upward as he fucks her, rocking her in its aftershocks.
"No, Adrian.", Deidra moans in his ear, turning her face away from Adrian's as his
kisses begin to move teasingly down her taut neck.
"I said no!" she shouts, pushing him off of her. The ceramic cup shatters on the
floor. Adrian hears a high ringing in his ear as he processes the sharp sting of her hand
across his face just seconds later. It burns cold.
His eyes open, acknowledging her wishes. Their faces hover there, each waiting for
the other to speak. The innocence of the morning had been irreversibly deflowered by a
moment of instant, mutual tragedy. Deidra had trusted Adrian, but she had not been with
a man since the car accident a year ago. She was confused. The call, the morning, the
kiss; it all felt false, nauseating, treasonous. A lie. Adrian knew this; he read it on her face
just before he slit his throat with the first kiss.
"Listen, I'm sorry," Adrian started to say, noticing the levees in Deidra's eyes
beginning to break. "It's not my place."
"I'm curious, Adrian", Deidra retorted calmly with a sickening smile and watery redshot eyes, clearly incensed. It is her way; gathering suspense for the vicious rhetoric to
come. "Tell me, what is your place?"
Adrian waits for her answer as she intends.
"Inside me? Is that your place?" The mascara bleeding from her eyes. As did her
words; horrible accusation broken in sobs.
"To fuck me?! To lure the widow in and pity fuck her in her dead husband's house
until she resigns in your love?! Yes, that's it, isn't it?! What about what I want, what I
would love, Adrian?! My step mother would have me rot in jail for what I've done to her
son and grandchild and it seems like she's going to have her way. You have wanted me
ever since Samuel died, and here I am, děvka, giving myself to you, betraying my vows
with the desperate thought that you'll give me what I want, what I would love from you.
Don’t pretend to not know of what I speak. You know why I called, and still you behave
like; this insolence."
Adrian remains composed. He knows she only means half of what she has said, like
some adolescent's first crush, confused with an overwhelming sense of dormant emotions
made to surface. Even her words, though effective, fit the adolescent analogy. Tainted as
the linguist is, Deidra's words are artificial; too formal in English for what she'd had so
naturally wished to say in Czech. All Adrian could think of was to leave and let her do
away with herself. But that’s not what she wanted from him.
Adrian begins to dress himself, pinning up his ruined pajamas so they can hang
about his waist. He couldn't help but believe that this is what he'd always done with
people in the past - just barely mended the torn so they could function awhile, until one
day the tear spreads so deep and so far in the fabric that they simply must come undone.
Adrian wraps himself in his coat, kisses Deidra on the cheek and heads for the door.
*
*
*
"No,...no,...no, no, no!" Deidra weeps, shaking her head, collapsed upon the floor,
naked in ruins. "I'm just" she starts, wiping her eyes, "just so tired. So damn tired of
pretending, living this way." She pauses, catching her breath. "I killed them. I've fucking
killed them! The people I loved most in my life. My child! How can I then, Adrian? Want
to live this, this regret each morning and night that I am responsible for the death of my
husband?! For the death of my child?! Why would I care to survive that?! I’m older now,
and I'm sick, Adrian. Can’t you see? I want to die." Deidra lowers her head and looks at
her hands, the scarred tissue of her wrists, and exhales.
"Only..." Adrian senses that this is what she has meant to pose through this entire
morning charade - the call, the tea, the sex, "....that I've tried. Oh God, have I tried, and I
can't. I just can't do it by myself…no."
The last of her words are punctuated with a cry that seems nearly like a laugh, only
it disturbs Adrian with something beyond her pain - his empathy.
*
*
*
Adrian whispers in her ear that he forgives her, kisses her beside one eye and then
hands her some Clozapine, which she swallows without protest. He also takes a few. The
last impression of him and her are as strangers; his senses perceive what he is not capable
of understanding, of feeling – someone’s hands dropping Deidra from that open window
and watching her fall thirteen stories. She screams all the way down, silenced as she
strikes a tree just before the street, its echo the last of audible sounds. He imagines the
sounds of her breathing just seconds before she dies as he watches her corpse convulse in
the most unnatural of ways, choking on her own blood. She is not beautiful anymore.
There is nothing beautiful in any of this.
*
*
*
Her psychiatrist lights one of Deidra’s last cigarettes and smokes it deeply,
walking over to the tea she had prepared moments ago for him. It’s still warm with her
authenticity, her love. He sips it quietly, slowly, noticing the lipstick on its rim where she
had tasted from his. His insides feel soothed with a warmth, and soon his clothes became
insufferable to wear. He hums A Love Supreme as he undresses, removing his pajamas
and casting them out into the void. The sun begins to rise, dyeing the sky with vivid hues
of natural pink as he walks to his car naked in the snow with a cigarette ablaze in his
hand. There's something beautiful about the way he walks. Adrian laughs that crazed
laugh as he drives, envisioning the new pajamas he would wear later that morning.
Bridget Waldron
The Reception
“Now when it comes to registering for wedding gifts this is something you
absolutely must have. Most people skip this product and come to regret it later.”
As Bryn listened to the sales woman try to convince her that she would die without a
two-hundred dollar milk frother, she could not help but think that something about this
did not feel right. And it was not just the fact that nothing that used to mix milk should
cost two-hundred dollars, it was the wedding overall. Bryn had been dreaming about her
wedding since she was four years old. She remembers throwing weddings when she was
younger where her dog was her escort down the aisle, her guests were her collection of
stuffed animals and her husband-to-be was her best friend’s little brother Dan (he was not
as excited about the whole thing as she was).
So, when her fiance Ethan proposed to her three months ago she had been ecstatic, but
the longer she had to think about it the more nervous she got. She definitely loved Ethan
and she had no reason to think she could not see herself spending the rest of her life with
him, but she kept getting this weird feeling in her stomach, something felt off.
When she focused back on the present, she heard Ethan say, “I think we’ll just
keep looking around, thank you so much though.”
“I didn’t think we were gonna get out of there until we bought that milk frother,”
Ethan said under his breath.
“Well, let’s just get out of here before she convinces us to register for a candle
snuffer or something, we have definitely registered for enough,” I replied.
We left the store and hopped into Ethan’s yellow Volkswagen. His car still smelled like
new, even though Ethan had purchased it almost six months ago. Bryn still could not
fathom why he would buy a yellow car. Of all the colors you could possibly get, why
yellow? When she had asked Ethan that exact question he said that he wanted it to stand
out and it definitely did. You could not miss a car that looked like that.
***
Ethan and Bryn met down the shore at a bar when they were both still in college.
They had both been out with friends and when Bryn’s friend Katie had recognized one of
her friends from high school, Ethan’s friend Brian, they were introduced and Ethan asked
her out. Bryn was impressed by his confidence, and if she was being completely honest,
his hair. Just something about a guy’s hair always caught her attention, do not ask her
why she had always been that way. Their first date was one of the best she had ever had.
Ethan took her to dinner at this cute, little Italian Restaurant called Agosto’s that she
never heard of before but it was some of the best food she had ever had. Ethan was so
easy to talk to he always had something to talk about and the conversation just flowed all
night. When the night was over they made plans to go out the next weekend and as they
say the rest is history.
Everything with Ethan is always so comfortable, that’s why Bryn cannot figure
out why she is feeling suddenly so uncomfortable. She does not really have the time to
think about any thing other than the wedding. So, now that the wedding planning is
slowing down, she has time to clear her head and this totally unsettling feeling is
beginning to set in and she does not really know what to do with herself. She is hoping
that when Ethan goes away on business and she goes to her cousin’s wedding she can
figure out what's going on in her head. She is a bridesmaid in her cousin Ann’s wedding
and she has been helping her plan her wedding as well.
The unsettling feeling actually first appeared when she was making favors for Ann’s
wedding shower. She was perfectly content tying ribbons around little baggies when
BAM she got a nervous feeling that she had not been able to shake ever since.
The day after Bryn and Ethan’s adventure registering for wedding gifts, Bryn was
happy to take focus off their wedding and go to her fitting for Ann’s wedding. When
Bryn entered the shop there was a little bell above the door that rang softly, the fact that
the door was unlocked was initially the only indication that the store was open. But, as
soon as they entered the shop and the bell above the door rang and the tiniest woman
Bryn had ever seen popped up from behind the counter. Bryn could not even see her from
in front of the counter. The tiny woman led Bryn back into the dressing area and began
taking Bryn’s measurements. As the fitting went on Bryn started to really like the tiny
seamstress named Mia. She had a thick Italian accent and she was probably the sweetest
woman Bryn had ever met. Before she knew it she was telling Mia all about her doubts
about Ethan and her wedding. Mia just nodded and listened and added the occasional uh
huh, or ohh I see. When Bryn left the fitting, she felt refreshed even though Mia did not
give her any real advice,or; just the opportunity to vent for a little while made her feel
better. For a few days the nervous feeling even went away, but, it came back. Bryn was
reading through the returned RSVPs for her wedding and counting how many chickens
and how many beefs she would need to tell the chef to prepare, when it hit her again that
unsettling feeling like something was terribly wrong. Bryn was hoping that when she left
for Pittsburgh in a few days for Ann’s rehearsal dinner she would be able to have fun
with Ethan and forget about her wedding for a little while.
“Good Morning, Listeners! It should be a beautiful day today...” Bryn woke up
and hit the off switch to her radio alarm clock at five in the morning so her and Ethan
could get to the airport on time. She was surprisingly energetic for how early it was. Bryn
was not a morning person, that was one of the differences between her and Ethan, it was
also one of the things that drove her crazy about him. When Ethan woke up he literally
hopped out of bed and started talking to her or himself it did not matter, he just started
making noise. Bryn remembered this one time when they were on vacation in Mexico,
they went out to a bar they night before and both had a little too much to drink. But, the
next morning when Ethan woke up he looked like he had had a perfect night sleep.
Where she on the other hand looked like she had been run over by a Septa bus.
Bryn walked down stairs and Ethan was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Bryn
decided that she would make breakfast this morning instead of her and Ethan's usual stop
at Wawa. Bryn made eggs and bacon for each of them and they sat down together at the
table. Bryn braced herself for what was coming next, she knew it was coming it was only
a matter of time. Then she heard it, this disgusting chomping noise that Ethan made when
he ate. She had gotten used to it for the most part but sometimes, like this morning, it got
to her. She could not even think of something to compare it to, it was just a really gross
sound like something sloshing around, it gave her chills when she heard it and she almost
could not finish her breakfast. After a very eventful breakfast from Bryn's point of view,
Ethan and Bryn packed up the car and headed to the airport. Bryn thank God she had
remembered her ipod incase Ethan decided to eat something on the plane.
***
Bryn and Ethan checked their bags and as they were waiting in line to go through
security Ethan was talking, but she was not really listening. She was thinking about what
she was going to do while she was in Pittsburgh. She was going to attend all the wedding
festivities of course but she had to decide what to do while Ethan was gone. Ethan had to
leave after the rehearsal dinner to go home for work. Bryn had not been anywhere
without Ethan for a long time, probably for as long as they have been engaged at least.
“Hey did you hear what I’ve been saying?’
“What?”
“I asked what you wanted to do when we got to Pittsburgh.”
“Oh.. I don’t know maybe meet up with some other people in the wedding party
and go out to eat.”
“Ok, sounds good. Hey, Bryn?”
“Yeah,”
“Are you okay? You’ve been acting a little weird.”
“Yeah I’m great.”
“Oh okay good, how's the wedding planning going? I know you've been stressing
about the bridesmaids dresses. ”
“Umm.. it's been okay, I worked everything out with the dresses."
"Good, but I know there is still a lot to do before our big day."
"Yeah there is, but could we just not talk about this right now."
"Uhh... sure I guess,"Ethan replied a little dejectedly.
***
They arrived in Pittsburgh and were greeted by Ann her fiance Sam. They then
met up with the rest of the wedding party and went out to dinner just like they had
planned. When they were dropped off at their hotel, Bryn was surprised by how beautiful
it was. The whole place was like taking a step back in time, it reminded her of the kind of
hotel people would stay at in the fifties. The place was so glamorous Bryn never wanted
to leave. She felt sort of envious that Ann got to get married there. The next few days
went by quickly and were kind of a blur of uneventful get togethers. Bryn looked forward
to the rehearsal dinner and the party that followed.
Bryn walked into the wedding rehearsal not really knowing what to expect. She
had never been in a wedding before and she was suddenly nervous. She felt like all she
ever did lately was get nervous and she was really starting to get sick of it.
Bryn was assigned to walk down the aisle with Sam’s childhood friend Patrick. But, he
was not able to fly in until tomorrow which did not necessarily help Bryn’s nerves. She
already kind of did not like him for giving her another reason to be nervous. Bryn was
surprised at how good she was having with Ethan. She felt the way she felt in the early
days of their relationship. He was being sweet and making her laugh and conversation
came easy again. She completely forgot about her nervousness and was just enjoying his
company, Bryn was actually really sad when Ethan had to fly back home on business and
she had to stay in Pittsburgh. Bryn was hoping that all the second- guessing she was
doing before she came to Pittsburgh was just a temporary thing and that she had moved
on.
***
She met Patrick for the first time the day of the wedding. Bryn had to admit that
he was good looking and she felt an immediate attraction towards him. She forgot that
she had decided not to like him the night before and was actually excited to be escorted
down the aisle by him.
They did their thing during Ann’s ceremony, walked down the aisle, looked good and
walked back down the aisle, the ceremony was a success. Bryn walked into the reception
with a feeling of excitement and she had this feeling of complete happiness. It was
completely unexplainable, but Bryn had the feeling that she was going to have a really
great time tonight. Bryn was at a table with Patrick, Ann had put them together because
they both did not have a significant other with them. They talked all through dinner and
after dinner Patrick asked her to take a walk with him outside for a little while. For some
reason she said yes and the next thing she knew she was in an intense game of twenty
questions and she was pretty sure that if were possible for there to be a loser in this game
she would be it. Patrick was so much more interesting than her, he was probably the most
interesting person she had ever met. He worked for a sports team as a public relations
manager and got to watch games and go to events for free. He went to Canada for a year
after high school and just wandered. Bryn had to think really hard just to remember the
last time she was off the East Coast. By the time they made their way inside it was almost
midnight and the reception was slowing down. They hung around a little while longer
and Bryn decided it was time to head back to her hotel. She made her way out the door,
and as she was walking out, had the feeling someone was following her out. She turned
around and it was Patrick, he flagged her down a cab, coolly said goodnight and walked
away. As Bryn got settled in the cab and thought about everything that had happened
tonight, Patrick made Bryn feel so good about herself, when she was around him or just
saw him from across the room she got this feeling in her stomach that just made her
smile. She could not explain the feeling, it was kind of like having butterflies in her
stomach but she was not nervous. It was a happy feeling, a feeling of contentment. Now,
Bryn just had to decide what to do about it.
***
The next morning, Bryn woke up and began to panic. She had a million thoughts
running through her head: she had just met the love of her life, but Ethan was supposed
to be the love of her life, so what does that mean, does Patrick feel the same way? Bryn
was beginning to think she was going crazy. She decided that she had to talk to Patrick,
she did not want to hurt Ethan but she had not felt this way since... ever. Bryn met Patrick
in a park near the University of Pittsburgh to talk. Bryn thought it would be best just to
get straight to the point before she freaked out and ran away or something.
"Hey Patrick, I have to ask you something?'
"Shoot."
"Would you ever consider dating?"
"Like in general..or?"
"No, dating me?"
"Of course, I really like you Bryn, there is something different about you. I've
never felt this way before. "
"Oh, Bryn replied and could not help but crack a smile.
"I did not want to say anything because I knew I would sound like a total creep if
I said anything."
"No, I feel the same way I just have to figure out what I'm going to do."
Bryn was so happy about what had just happened that she didn't really have much of a
decision to make. But she had to a least think about what she was about to do for a few
days because Ethan had been with her for a long time and he deserved more than just a
quick gut decision.
***
After Bryn and Patrick had their "talk" they decided to try to make a relationship
work. She realized that she was leaving a man she had been with for years for a man she
just met and could possibly be making the biggest mistake of her life. That made her
incredibly nervous, but she knew if she did not try she would always regret it. Now Bryn
had to decide how to break the news to Ethan. She was not going to breakup over text
message or leave a voicemail, she was not like that. But she still had a ton of anxiety on
the way home from Pittsburgh. When Bryn got home Ethan was waiting for her, she
thought she should just spit it out and get it over with.
"Ethan, I think we should break up."
"Come again?"
"I think we should break up."
"What reason could you possibly have for wanting to do something like that?"
"I know this is going to sound bad but, I met someone else."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, did you sleep with someone else?!" he interrupted
"No, No! Of course not."
"Then what happened?" he exclaimed.
"I met at the wedding reception after you left. I didn't mean for this to happen..."
"Well obviously it did, didn't it?" he yelled while storming out of their apartment.
After the breakup Bryn cried for weeks, she did not think she was going to be this
upset. She was so content with her decision until Ethan was actually gone. She knew she
had really hurt Ethan and it was not the kind of thing he would get over in a few months,
she had a feeling her "bitchiness" for lack of a better word, would affect Ethan for a long
time. She knew that was probably really conceited to think she had that much affect on
his life, but it was more of a fear than an actual belief. Bryn later realized that that was
the main reason she was so upset. Part of it was that Ethan was gone, but the main reason
was that she was really afraid that she had truly hurt him. She was going to live with
Patrick in Pittsburgh in a month, they had been flying back and forth over the past few
weeks and she finally decided to make the move. Before she had been living in the
apartment she used to share with Ethan and would call Patrick everyday and they would
take turns visiting each other on the weekends and that was sort of annoying but
manageable. But the main reason she was moving was because she could not stand to live
in the apartment that used to be her and Ethan's. Now that Ethan was gone it felt
completely different, it was not the same place she had live in before and she had to get
away from it.
***
The last time Bryn spoke to Ethan was a little over a year ago. Bryn moved in with
Patrick a little less than a year ago. Patrick came down to help her move and they have
been really happy together so far. Being with Patrick adds a completely different feeling
that she did not have with Ethan. Bryn knows she made the right decision, she should be
with the person that makes her feel so elated and content, and that person is Patrick. They
are planning their wedding and hoping to get married next May. Bryn has not had any
uncomfortable feelings about this wedding, she is just caught up in the excitement of it all
but she still thinks about Ethan a lot. She cannot get over the thought that she had really
hurt him. She cries about it sometimes, but knows there is nothing she can really do about
it. Bryn realized very quickly after she broke up with Ethan that she may not have that
nervous feeling anymore, but she will always have to live with the fact that she is happy
at the expense of Ethan's happiness.